Mudblood Of Your Dreams
by BluntJoey
Summary: As Harry and his friends await for Voldemort to strike in their fifth year, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy explore lust for each other so forbidden, a lust that turns into something deeply profound. But they must choose the right path. REVISED 2011.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** The lyrics in this story's introduction are not prejudicial, but are cynical lyrics against racism, hence: 'Just fucking jump.' The song is by the band Hole, and is called "Nigger of Your Dreams." If anyone at all thinks I'm prejudice, here's my profile: I'm part Latino, part Caucasian, my sister is half Black, and numerous relatives on my father's side(my Latin side) are mixed with an influx of cultures in an even larger respect. Not to mention that I'm gay. I simply would like to make it perfectly clear that every foul word enclosed (even 'MudBlood" for that matter) are being used in the context of scorn towards ignorance.

I found 'Nigger of your Dreams' very inspiring, but I've been writing my own young adult novel, and consequently I've not had time to write Harry Potter fan fiction. I found my Shoebox Project PDFS the other day, and I begun remembering how much my writing grew from the age of fifteen (when I started Boys on the Radio) to eighteen, to its present form of development, now publishable. But fan fiction helped my creative engine expand itself greatly, improving my language skills to excellent articulation, granting the privilege of the objective (mostly) reviews from numerous readers, which guided me. So with this short story which I hereby present, I am paying homage to the Harry Potter fandom world, thanks to the song's inspiration and the Shoebox discovery in my move. If anyone wants to listen to the song, note that there was no commercial release; it can be found here in the site's sound section for free. This could be labeled as Draco/Hermione, but I really wouldn't call this romance.

"Mudblood of Your Dreams: Part One"

'_In the Bible, angel wing,_

_just because I know I will ..._

_I'm the nigger of your dreams;_

_you're the nigger, You will never see._

_I'm the nigger that you know!_

_I'm your nigger, tell me so!_

_You're a nigger, I'm one too!_

_Just fucking jump.' _- "Nigger of Your Dreams", Hole

"I'd watch out if I were you, Granger. You too, Weasel, you and your whole family of blood-traitors!"

Draco Malfoy stared Hermione Granger right in the eye, taking the time to harass Harry Potter and his friends in their compartment. Luckily, Draco had been made a prefect, so his authority eliminated any chance of getting into trouble, naturally. It was his fifth year, and most people didn't pay mind to Potter's outrageous allegations, but unfortunately Draco was totally right: The Dark Lord had returned the night Cedric Diggory had lost his life, the night of the third task, and had Harry Potter not been privileged with "supernatural luck" (as his father, Lucius Malfoy, had described it) he would have been annihilated once and for all. And so he was happy to taunt Granger now, because it couldn't be any truer; the Mudbloods, the Dark Lord's greatest distaste, were to be obliterated. "You'll be first, Granger, just have the Weasel there tell you how much the Dark Lord loathes your filthy, unworthy kind. The pathetic Weasleys will know all about the greatness of the Dark Lord."

"Malfoy, you fucking asshole, don't you ever talk to her like that -" Ron indignantly screamed in retort, and though usually Harry would tell Ron to let it go, this time he, too, had risen out of his seat enraged while Hermione alone remained seated, fearful for her brave friends' safety.

"Don't bother, he's not worth it," Hermione warned, looking up at Harry and Ron pleadingly. They looked livid that she was trying to stop them, though they knew she had always done so.

"Haha, you should be scared of me, Granger, my father's on his right hand side." Though Malfoy had always been one to redundantly romanticize his father, this was doubtless to them. Malfoy smiled gleefully at their somewhat petrified looks that they couldn't hide completely, which satisfied him enough; he turned around and left at that. He proceeded back to his compartment with his fellow Slytherin fifth years who were waiting to hear how he had taunted Potter (given that most of their parents were also involved with the Dark Lord in some way, too) about what had happened to him. Those who actually did believe Harry's story (which wasn't a lot since the Ministry had been overseeing The Daily Prophet with threats to any reporter who commended Harry in any such way) were terrified, naturally, but to Draco it was all humorous. Bloody hell, he heard there was to be a memorial service for Cedric Diggory, but what everyone was oblivious to was how insignificant he had been; nothing more than a pawn, an ant to squash, just a meaningless human the Dark Lord sacrificed apathetically. It was examples of his greatness like this that made Draco anticipate this coming June, the day he was to become a Death Eater, so very impatiently. It was great to be the best pure-blood family, a Malfoy….

_"Cedric! Cedric!" Harry yelled, disbelieving what he knew the Killing Curse had just done. Cedric lie immobile next to one of the many tombstones in the dark graveyard night. Frantically Harry searched around, but all he saw in every corner of his eyes were the multitude of tombstones that haunted his mind every surpassing second, feeling certain he was next …_

_And then a cruel, terrible laugh, the laugh that had polluted his dreams mysteriously since he was a child. It was him – Voldemort. He was walking towards him, completely masked in the darkness by a cloak and its hood. He was perhaps a hundred feet away, coming towards him directly between the tombstones. His wand was pointed directly at Harry as though mirthfully arrogant that there would be no defense from Harry. But Harry wasn't undignified; he searched quickly for his wand in his pockets … but it was gone! How? How?_

_Harry looked up: the tyrannical face of Voldemort, indescribably horrid in its inhumane snake-like resemblance, was just a few feet away from him, and his wand was a centimeter from touching the center of Harry's chest. Harry fell into an excruciating abyss in the moment before what would be his death, waiting for Voldemort to mutter the curse in a millisecond …. His laugh got louder and louder as Harry effortlessly tried to push the wand away …._

Harry woke up in his four-poster bed in Gryffindor tower, startled and terrified by yet another of the many dreams that had left so many nights almost entirely sleepless, but despite the rest this one was one of the first. Cedric's dead face had looked so vividly detailed this time, maybe even worse than how it had actually been. He just wished he could sleep peacefully again for one night, to remember what it feels like. It's not like he had ever had a typical teenager's life, but it was pretty damn fair to state that even the strongest people couldn't deal with such a predicament: It was he, Harry, versus the Dark Lord, Voldemort, the most powerful evil wizard in recent times. But whether it was fair or not, sustainable or not, it was what was before him no matter what. Fortunately for him, he did have one untouchable, insurmountable asset: Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard to have ever lived. Harry had dreaded that he'd act secretively (so used to him working under his own unknown agendas), but instead Dumbledore had actually summoned Harry to his office immediately following the start-of-term feast, which in itself had been mysterious and questionable.

For one, the Defense Against the Dark Arts replacement was, unbelievably so, the actual Alastor Moody, who had explained his choice as "a return to fulfill what I had intended to do a year ago, to complete my obligations to Professor Dumbledore, even if he insists it is not imperative by any means"; this was verbatim in his speech; despite the torture he had endured from his now worse-than-dead imposter, who he made no mention of, almost as though he hadn't made it because of some sporadic illness. Secondly, even more shocking was that Severus Snape, the Potions Master and one of Harry's least favorite people, had unexpectedly been replaced! Harry was not to rejoice, though, certain the change was not brought about from a harmless cause, especially since their new professor, Eleanor Sparrowseed, previously worked in the Ministry of Magic as one of Cornelius Fudge's top advisors!

Harry recalled Dumbledore sending Snape on an unknown mission when they'd all been gathered in the infirmary after the Third Task, though obviously Dumbledore had been carefully subtle. However, Harry (as did Hermione and Ron) felt there was no doubt Snape was sent to work as a double agent, the most sensible explanation since Snape himself had been a Death Eater. As for his successor, Eleanor Sparrowseed was Snape's antithesis by all means: she was a highly attractive, tall blonde woman with complimenting curves for being in her early thirties, and her introducing speech demeanor made her seem charming. Despite her appealing impression, Harry, Ron, and Hermione easily saw past the front and viewed her as being employed at Hogwarts only as a political strategy, as one of Fudge's finest minions set upon a conspiracy against their newest, powerful enemy: Albus Dumbledore, keeper of the horrific truth.

And so after these illuminating yet puzzling events, Harry and Dumbledore harbored comfortably in the obscurely warming office that Harry found so familiar by now, except that now it felt like a meeting place for much more crucial affairs. After a brief cordial exchange, Dumbledore immediately confirmed him and his friends' scary suspicions. "Cornelius Fudge is a stubborn man, Harry, as shown in his execution of his every effort to prevent the wizarding world from knowing that Voldemort has indeed returned. Hence, as I am certain you have realized, the appointment of Eleanor Sparrowseed was forced upon me by Cornelius, who claimed the authority to command such by legalistic technicalities within the Ministry, even though such interference hasn't occurred for over a hundred years." He spoke characteristically, his tone calmly contained as usual, yet somehow Harry felt it dripped with severity. Even though Dumbledore had no pleasant matters to discuss with Harry, he still felt comforted because in Dumbledore Harry granted complete trust.

Still somewhat bewildered, Harry remarked, "Sir, won't everyone realize Voldemort's back, anyway? Won't he start to strike again very soon?" Harry asked curiously, slightly taken aback by what he viewed as a fruitless conspiracy on Fudge's part. Harry had assumed that Voldemort would seize his opportunity to make himself as evident as possible.

Dumbledore focused carefully on Harry through his moon-shaped spectacles. "Not yet, Harry. Voldemort is cunningly bright, don't forget that ever, and he knows it is in his best interest to bide his time and distract us with these qualms amongst ourselves," he explained patiently, his arms folded gracefully on his desk as he looked into Harry's hopelessly vulnerable, deep green eyes. He sighed at Harry's silent reaction, and wearily added, "I also feel strongly that Cornelius may truly been under the impression that Voldemort's return is just a fabrication of ours, perhaps to somehow overthrow him and seize power."

This angered Harry significantly because he was totally mystified by such idiocy. "That's rubbish, Professor! Why is he so against me? I mean, you remember Professor, he used Rita Skeeter's trash stories against me even!" Harry noted indignantly. "He thinks I'm a delusional Parseltongue that's dangerous."

Dumbledore, still perfectly composed despite being even wearier now, gestured a calming hand and consoling nod. "Yes, Harry, clearly his thought process is purely irrational, but don't forget that the wizarding world still holds me in superb esteems. Fudge can try to discredit me, use The Daily Prophet to spread vermin about both of us, but the wizarding world holds much more trust in me than in him; you may not be aware of this, but I was the favored candidate for Minister of Magic at the last election, but I refused to run because of my allegiance to Hogwarts. At the time, Cornelius was merely respected and somewhat qualified, but rest assured that had it not been for my personal endorsement, Fudge would never have succeeded."

This struck a piercing cord in Harry, who in lividness was shaking his fists at his lap and glaring menacingly as he pondered upon the disgustingly immoral manner in which Fudge showed Dumbledore gratitude; envy seemed to be Fudge's sole director apathetically. "That's terrible, Professor, how dare he treat you like that after ..."

Dumbledore gestured an appreciative but dismissive hand as he concluded, "I will ensure that the currently very fragile wizarding world no longer suffers in blind ignorance, the blind eye which will lead us to detriment if we do not intervene imminently in Fudge's conspiracy," His words had strong conviction, his extraordinary character shining especially bright to Harry as he observed Dumbledore's complete selflessness at the price of Fudge's ridicule.

Harry believed Dumbledore but was so outraged at the unfair treatment directed at not only Dumbledore (who had surely dealt with such throughout his long life and was much wiser), but at himself for his honest recollection of his horrifying experience: who had he wronged by detailing Cedric's death and Voldemort's return painfully, by bravely bringing Cedric's remains to the Diggory family, by being forced into a tournament that he didn't even qualify for? What had he done to Fudge, or to anybody within Ministry power or to the vicious reporters in The Daily Prophet (one example of a public slander of him), that justified the intense scrutiny that he would now confront much more fiercely now? He twitched more than ever with heated frustration, but disciplined a few deep breaths before nodding. "I understand, sir; I'll do my best to keep my cool while you work it out."

Dumbledore smiled rather sadly at Harry in appreciation, spoke a few more consoling words, and then finally Harry returned to his four-poster bed in Gryffindor Tower that awaited him after his strenuously-spent summer.

Draco hastily charged towards the dungeons, late to the first class with Professor Sparrowseed because his bag full of textbooks had split after he had already taken a moment to use the restroom, compliments to the enormous work that their fifth year was to bring due to O.W.L.S. exams. Only halfway to the dungeon entrance as the bell rang, Draco swore testily under his breath as he tried to hold his belongings in his makeshift bag. He uselessly cursed as he paced on stupidly, and heard footsteps behind him just as he approached the descending stairs, and as he looked behind him to see who it was, the very unlikely person spoke in her very identifiable, resented voice.

"Here, Malfoy, let me fix it for you." Hermione Granger was poised perfectly as always, holding her heavy bag neatly around her shoulder while holding her wand comfortably in her hand. She rolled her eyes at him as he glared evilly (but confusedly) at her, pointed her wand at his bag, muttered a simple charm that he should have thought of right away, and smirked at him in an almost friendly manner. The spell had orderly placed his belongings inside the bag (which seemed even sturdier than before) conveniently, but Draco stood stunned at the surreal event that had just taken place. She lightly laughed at him and walked past him, looking back to say, "You're lucky I was running an errand for Sparrowseed since I got there early. Just don't mention it to a single soul ever, Malfoy." She stalked off mysteriously, and he hatefully felt an emotion towards her that tended to be more apparent when in her presence lately: lust.

The truth was that the bushy-haired, buck-teethed teacher's pet had transformed into a tall, curvy brunette (her hair displayed in a slick bun, just as she had appropriated sexily at the Yule Ball last year), who undeniably had a rather large chest for an adolescent girl of no more than 130 pounds; and to top it off, while she had been a pestering know-it-all as a first and second year, now she came off as a prominent work of brilliance that others aspired to level with. He would choose to face a Hungarian Horntail a million times before openly admitting it, but Hermione Granger had become one of Hogwart's fanciest attractions.

And by the way she had just weirdly flirted with him pretty openly, Draco guiltily felt rather content that the admiration was perhaps mutual.

Hermione felt an adrenaline rush pulse through her veins, totally in shock after her brief encounter with Malfoy, partially appalled and partially (very guiltily felt) pleased as she deliberated in a mind war whether Draco fancied her to some level (unconsciously even, or perhaps secretly very conscious of it) that would be socially unacceptable, even if it were miniscule. Considering that she had just uncharacteristically disregarded her own inhibitions momentarily to flirt with Draco, she anticipated that now all bets were off; she was fairly certain that her question would be answered soon, though she felt horribly contaminated somehow, ashamed of her own lustful thoughts for Malfoy, one of their primary allies. But it was what it was.

Thankfully, Professor Sparrowseed interrupted her thoughts as she begun class with a well-rehearsed monologue regarding a return to conservative methods of teaching in preparation for their pivotal O.W.L.s examination. It basically, in other words, was her revealing that the class atmosphere would be obsolete, in perfect regiment with the Ministry's approval. The single benefit, in fairness, was that Snape's constant unrealistic, intense demands were no longer present; that, rather instead, made the class now a rather simple task for Hermione. As she begun copying down the notes with passionate vigor (like always), instantly all thoughts of Malfoy were eliminated as she fixated herself into school mode. Nothing could distract her from school, her most everlasting priority.

The topic of Chapter One in Advance and Complex Potion Making, O.W.L. _Standardizations, _by Joan Highland, centered upon a highly ironic topic that she was shocked the Ministry had approved of:Veritaserum, which had been used to interrogate Barty Crouch Jr., Mad-Eye Moody's impersonator, who then suffered the Dementor's Kiss because of the serum's results. Therefore it seemed rather odd that they were tackling an issue the first day that directly related to recent controversial events. This event was one of many interrelated ones that Harry participated in, too notably. (He probably could stir a scandal with each one if he chose to, though of course he wouldn't want to do any such thing.) Perhaps Veritaserum just happened to be at the start of the strict regiment now in effect. After all, the textbook was new and unheard of, and had already brought upon mixed reactions (including her own). In any case, despite that she was already well-informed on the topic (even before the Third Task's aftermath), Hermione still eagerly copied down the notes neatly just in case:

_I. Veritaserum i.e. meticulously difficult to concoct, and its effect make the drinker completely incapable of speaking anything other than the truth, almost completely infallible; often used in trial interrogations at the defense's compliances; legalistically only valid evidence if serum is concocted by at least two Potion Masters, both responsibility must oversee and perfect the other's work._

Hermione absentmindedly glanced to her right once Sparrowseed began elaborating further on the subject, and accidentally noticed Malfoy peering at her surreptitiously: he held his quill between his teeth routinely - bored already without Professor Snape'sextra, praising attention -while his eyes warily narrowed with high interest. Unsurprisingly, though, instantly Draco looked away coolly at her noticing, as if nothing special was at play. It made Hermione wonder whether he had acknowledged that she had obviously seen quite enough. Nonetheless, sporadically throughout the two hour period, Hermione would try to take a subtle look in Draco's direction to catch him, but thereafter nothing unusual played out between the two. So, although she'd enjoyed their second "moment" (the first being in the hallway) by the time class ended Hermione felt totally monotonous…

While Harry and Ron complained away about Sparrowseed on their way to Advance Charms, Hermione pondered upon Draco and his unclear feelings, wishing she could give him Veritaserum without his knowing. Not that she'd react with avid pursuit either way, but there was simply a beauty in the relief of inhibitions and endless uncertainty.

Draco cursed himself for forgetting his Astronomy textbook in the North Tower after his midnight class, remembering only as he made it around the corner to the dungeons. He felt annoyed as ever as he half-scurried to retrace his steps, well-aware that it'd be a lot harder to get it in the morning. By the time he reached the North Tower's rooftop, Draco felt terribly weary, so at first glance of his textbook - which looked like debris on top the stone railing - he sped out into the cold and picked it up. But he was unexpectedly alarmed, because as he turned back again he saw a human shadow in the corner of his eyes! Draco was startled completely. He jumped into a swift turn to face the stranger, the hairs on the back of his neck flying up. What if he was about to be caught by a furious professor?

The spooky shadow was underneath the stone archway leading inside, but the person stepped into plain sight before Draco could do anything. And despite that the person's huge cloak hood was la partial mask, even from opposing ends of the rooftop Draco identified the person immediately: Unbelievably, the stranger was Hermione Granger, his secret, very guilty pleasure- the Mudblood of his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

Mudblood of You Dreams: Part Two

"We just keep running into one another," Hermione said sarcastically while she smirked happily at Malfoy. She removed her hood to "greet" him as she walked over to the stone railing to face him directly.

Draco made sure to maintain a stiff, standoffish stance, his hands stuffed in his cloak pockets and the back of his left leg against the stone railing. Truthfully, Draco felt highly apprehensive about what he felt would be a critical conversation. Once she stood at an even distance in front of him, he raised an eyebrow and smirked as he finally responded back, "Yes, true, it's like I've been cursed with the Mudblood omen of death." He laughed coldly, working hard to bury his actual feelings. Draco he felt the need to remain in-character until it was safe to act otherwise (if ever), so like comments fit for the time being.

Hermione laughed humorously at what she found to be a pathetic comeback. "Oh Draco, you must learn to control that temper of yours, that is _if _you really want to work under Voldemort," she said plainly, as though discussing the weather.

Draco shuddered on the spot at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. "What are you blubbering about, Granger?" he retorted sharply, now defensive because she seemed to be aware of matters that she shouldn't. Yes, he would be a Death Eater, but how did she know this? Perhaps it was merely an inference presumed factual...

"They'll inaugurate you as a new Death Eater soon, with you of course being recklessly willing to follow in your father's footsteps," she explained disapprovingly, her tone acidic. "But really, Draco, I would hope you're smarter than that."

A chill spiraled through his spine as Draco silently observed her with wary eyes. Draco, deeply sighing first, laughed to hide his uncertainty, then arrogantly said, "You're correct, Mudblood, I'm smart, and no smart Pureblood would take advice from inferiority of your kind –"

"Inferiority, Malfoy, is that what I am, even though I surpass you in all our studies, despite being Muggle-born? Doesn't that make YOU a shame to _your_ kind?" Hermione smiled confidently, defending herself compellingly.

Draco stiffened worse, glaring daggers at her as her words pierced his insides. He looked at her as though he felt her comment was ludicrous, and incredulously said, "I'm not going to respond to that even. I'm just not."

He looked livid the next moment when she began laughing heartily at his lackluster comeback. "Oh, Draco, you're a silly one now aren't you?" she said patronizingly. "Perhaps we can try speaking once again when you've decided to speak truthfully." She gave him a humored smile once again and then turned to walk inside. But as she walked past the entryway, Hermione looked back and pointed her wand directly at Draco. "_Infernio_!"

He had been shivering intensely but now was much warmer, thanks to her spell. This was the second time she had helped him, and he accidentally let his guard down by gratuitously smiling . It seemed unfortunately apparent that his enchanted feelings for her could hardly be hidden in her presence much longer…

Harry could not believe how overwhelming this year's stress already felt as he walked out his first morning class, Transfiguration, on their second Monday of term. _Everyone, _not just him, was showing dramatic symptoms proving this: Dean was swearing like a sailor at the slightest interruption when studying, which put Seamus at distance, despite being his best friend misfortunately; Lavender. like Parvati too, wasn't showing enumeration with Divination nearly as much now that so much concentration was needed for more difficult courses; Ron's temper was becoming unbearable (given he already always had more trouble than Harry or Hermione academically), due to his constant snapping even when help was being offered; Neville was hopeless in _numerous_ ways, falling dreadfully behind in everything but Herbology and losing things even more excessively; Parvati additionally had already suffered from a public breakdown, mood swings, and from consequential overzealousness (which left her sleeping four hours each night); Hermione's frustration was showing just a bit, too, this quite inevitable since she was taking more courses than anyone else.

Indeed, Hogwarts' professors had paved a sour beginning to get them into the O.. "mood", apparently. Somehow they would have to adjust to the new vigorous regiment…

Finally on the Friday of the second week, the trio took the time to pay Hagrid a visit. As they sat down and had tea comfortably on his couches, the topic quickly turned to more "sour" matters, despite the fact that he would not at all detail what his mission over the summer contained, though they inferred that it had to deal with the small amount of giants left in the mountains in France (which Hermione told them about). He seemed to suggest that it was something important.

"I reckon it'll be dark times, Harry, dark times." He spoke in a dark tone unlike his own and seemed to speak only to Harry several times, which made him feel uncomfortable.

"But we're more prepared this time aren't we?" Ron said, clearly unconvinced. "I mean a lot of people that Dumbledore trusts are working with us, right?"

"Yes we do, Ron, but don't you think You-Know-Who will be even more furious this time around?" Hermione suggested darkly, and Harry rolled his eyes at her reluctance to use Voldemort name. She felt so anxious for her many friends as the fruitless speculations continued on, questioning her oddities with Malfoy simultaneously. Their motives were so contrary, their lives so separate. But this fact only seemed to fuel the attraction. Her loyalty remained with Harry always, but her longing heart sought a dark, dangerous dragon.

About an hour later, just as the trio made their way up the stone steps to the castle, one of the school barn owls dropped a brown envelope into Hermione's hand and quickly flew away. Harry and Ron stared at her curiously but Hermione just shrugged it off casually, deciding to wait until they were inside to open it. She excused herself to the lavatory, predicting it would be from Draco. Of course it was, but it merely read:

_Same time, same place_.

She felt permanently excavated by Draco, a feeling she loathed and loved.

Draco had gotten there first, leaning against the stone railing as he stared at the night sky. He heard her footsteps creeping toward him, which made a chill sweep up his bones in anticipation. He had finally admitted to himself how much he enjoyed meeting her, and this time was no different.

She joined him at the railing and smiled. "Hello there, Vermin." She looked at him kindly as she said it, obviously not intending it to be an insult somehow.

"Good night to you, Mudblood," he responded in the same manner. "How was you day?"

"It was nice. We visited Hagrid, who had a lot to say about current matters…." But she sounded disinterested, and refocused her attention with fervor. "…Meanwhile, Draco, to be honest I'm feeling ambivalent because I really like you. I think, anyway." Had she really just purged out the awful truth?

It was remarkable that had he said the same words it would have been completely accurate.

Draco looked stunned, falling into a dreamy daze momentarily. Finally, after sighing he said awkwardly, "When I was younger my father's taunting about the 'glorious Dark Lord' gave me nightmares. Sometimes even, when he was gone on business, I'd run to sleep with Mum in the middle of the night. Of course t_hat _ceased by the time I was about ten, although the nightmares went on, worse maybe."

Privately, Hermione wondered, _Could he have gone more off-topic? He should illuminate-his emotions specially for me, and yet …_

Regardless, this underwhelming distraction did not stifle Hermione's utmost sincerity as she responded, "…And with your mother - how did you sleep?"

Draco looked directly at her and smiled cynically, which she found odd. "Oh I was fine … After she fucked me." He burst out laughing at this.

Hermione looked furious, finding no humor in his detestable comment. For Draco, so she guessed anyway, bad 'humor' was his way of dealing with it. Nonetheless, "Very funny, Vermin," she remarked coldly.

"Oh bugger off, Mudblood," he said cheerfully.

At this, the two leaned in close to each other silently, and then unbelievably kissed before they could even second-guess themselves. It was a slow, passionate kiss too: their lips touched gently, and in total motion with each other they lightly kissed for some time, and then thoughtlessly they delved deeper into the kiss, sheepishly allowing their tongues to meet; Hermione had each of her hands on Draco's cheek, maintaining control as always…

And then dooming thoughts ensued.

Why was Hermione, always most practical and prudent, allowing such rash circumstances to happen, partially at her own doing? The whole thing was beyond unhealthy, for the lesser good actually. Perhaps for once she'd let her inhibitions fly, let her fear of failure be abandoned, which was close to hilarity itself. Hermione never failed at anything significant … or did this give-in to seduction count?

They pulled away after what felt like eternity, at least in their new realm of timeless existence. But upon returning to real-life, they didn't look at each other even. Unguardedly, they looked human as ever, full of emotions that made them hide their faces. Who were they now, what had they morphed into? Not something socially permitted, that's for sure.

"Draco, what are we to do?" Hermione asked softly. They were only an inch or two apart, close enough to hear each other's deep breathing. "We live in a real world."

"Obviously, _Hermione_." His tone was cynical as usual, but it was the first time he'd ever addressed her by her actual name, which momentarily stunned her. Without accentuation, though, Draco added, "There are so many secrets that we'll never tell each other. We're on opposing teams that loathe each other worse than humanly possible."

Hermione almost laughed at his blatant perspective of what was admittedly very true. "Well… there's no denying that, I suppose," she said humorously, but then she said thoughtfully, "But maybe we can somehow place that all aside… or, err, whatever. And besides, we're fifteen for heaven's sake! Nothing is too serious, right, if we are to be logical?" Hermione sounded overtly serious, unaware of her harshness until she'd already spoken, which left her turning bright-red.

They both burst out laughing nevertheless, serving as the good comic relief very much needed.

"This is s_o_ not typical," Draco said, still laughing as though Hermione had said something incredibly silly. "But I do see what you're trying to say."

Hermione nodded curtly before abruptly heading back inside. "It's awfully cold out here, Draco, I'm going inside. Come if you'd like."

"Where on earth can we go? Are you looking to get caught, Hermione?" Draco outraged, slightly irritated.

"No! Do you think I would really do anything rash? Honestly," she retorted evenly. Hermione gestured for him to follow as she started inside, confidently not looking back as she knew he'd end up following.

Draco did indeed lead behind her, baffled completely. Neither started talking at any point for good reason: sometimes they heard footsteps, near and far alike, sometimes they were tricked by the loud ghosts prodding about, and sometimes distant voices (possibly from their paranoid heads) could be heard; Draco begged to any and every divine force that they wouldn't get caught during some insane Gryffindor adventure. How on earth would they explain a situation like that? Luckily, eventually they ended up infiltrating a back passage toward the library, but then Hermione took him completely by surprise by harboring a particular girls' bathroom: the one that everyone avoided - _Moaning Myrtle's bathroom_. _Oh shit_, Draco thought to himself resentfully, _this is not going to be the slight bit of fun_…

Hermione took out her wand and said '_Lumos!', _so Draco did the same. She moved to sit in the corner past the murky sinks, and he joined her. For a moment he thought that Myrtle was perhaps wandering around somewhere else, but as though to jokingly say 'gotcha' she burst out of the toilet nearest them: splashing toilet water just inches away from them, thankfully Myrtle did not hit either of them, which was good since Draco would've been livid with Hermione. Her gloomy Plain-Jane appearance, that of an ordinary-looking teenage girl with cheap glasses and an ugly gown, was about to haunt them endlessly. Draco dreaded this with no doubt about it…

"Oh no," Draco muttered exasperatedly. "_Goddamn it _…"

Hermione looked at him apologetically as Myrtle zoomed around the bathroom above them almost theatrically. After a while, Myrtle floated down to their level and said annoyingly, "What on earth is a _boy_ doing here? And look it's you, the same girl that used to be in my bathroom all the time …"

"Yes, it's been a few years, how are you?" Hermione tried to say this pleasantly in spite of her great irritation.

"How do you _think _I am?" She wailed, sounding very insulted. "I'm dead after all, yet forever picked on, mocked, and blasted with mean things even still!" Pathetically, Myrtle dramatically fell into a crying fit as she rested on one of the murky sinks.

Hermione and Draco exchanged sour looks at each other. Short-tempered though, Draco, lacking any sensitivity whatsoever, snapped, "Oh, Myrtle, calm down won't you! You're bloody dead, have been for some fifty odd years already! Get over it." Myrtle melodramatically screeched after hearing this, then tearfully swarmed midair throughout the bathroom. Hermione glared at Draco for provoking her, but he had no sympathy for Myrtle's river of tears, sarcastically adding, "I would tell you to jump off a bridge, but once again you're dead already! Hmm, I dunno how else you can free yourself and everyone around you from your misery, though."

Hermione looked at him and couldn't help but laugh for a moment, although immediately afterward she scolded him. "Draco, you're not helping!" But realizing the situation overall was hopeless, Hermione conceded lethargically. "Let's go to bed, Draco. We can meet again tomorrow night if you wish."

Draco nodded, a little too smiley and adamant for his self-taste, but just enough to leave Hermione smitten. Shaking his modest flamboyance off right away, however, Draco responded in a professional-like, assertive tone. "_Same time, same place_."

Dementors flee from Azkaban while Ministry Plays a Blind Eye

By Lesley Os 

_The Dementors have always guarded Azkaban, a fact that has always granted the wizarding community peaceful sleep. But suddenly, the Dementors remarkably have fled without any kind of antecedent, without any visible motives to heed to! The Minister, Cornelius Fudge, has remarked, 'We are doing everything we can to get to the bottom of this' , but are his words truly reassuring? Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest and most respected wizards of our time, has announced that, in light of recent events, he will be making a speech at Hogwarts on October the first: 'I will illuminate the truth that Mr. Fudge has been withholding. Dire scenarios are upon us that must be confronted immediately', the Headmaster said yesterday. Rumors involving the mysterious events at the Triwizard Tournament's end at Hogwarts in July (i.e. the death of Cedric Diggory and the outlandish claim from Harry Potter that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned that very night) may perhaps be more than just that. Either way, surely we may very well learn the whole truth, nothing but it, from Dumbledore, not Minister Fudge disappointingly._

_(Yours truly, Chief Editor for _The Daily Prophet, _will be present for full coverage.)_"

"I guess it's not really a surprise, is it?" Hermione said unhappily to Harry and Ron as they ate breakfast the following morning. All throughout the Great Hall students and staff were panicking about the detrimental news.

"Dumbledore said it would happen," Ron said darkly.

The two of them peered at a much more paled Harry, who finally said in a matter-of-fact, almost emotionless way, "The Second War has truly begun."


	3. Chapter 3

Mudblood of Your Dreams: Part Three

" … I'm now prude, now defensive; quickly I'm altered and tempted by, new love only rented." – Marry Me, No Doubt

Harry felt queasy from uncharacteristic anxiety spurring through him as he sat down in Dumbledore's eccentric office, pensively returning Dumbledore's fixed gaze through the punctuated glow of his bright green eyes, Lily's. Dumbledore didn't exactly look pity-struck for Harry's reactive whelm towards the impending news, his expression unidentifiable as he surveyed Harry calculatingly before finally clearing his throat alertly. "Harry, by now I am certain you have read today's headline on The Daily Prophet. As predicted, the dementors have indeed fled Azkaban," Dumbledore said severely, watching the color sink from Harry's face. "The Order is working relentlessly to discover Voldemort's present motive at play, but I must warn you that this serves only as a terrible reaffirmation that our world is the greatest conflict of its time." His eyes did not twinkle at Harry as they often did, only revealed tiredness, his crestfallen irises.

Harry returned an uncertain, anxious gaze. "What do you think he's planning to do, Sir?" he asked sharply. "What can be done to stop him?"

Dumbledore seemed to sense the urgency in his tone well, waving a calming hand in the air immediately. "Patience, Harry. Voldemort knows too well that I am absolutely wary to his every move, and I do not believe he has the means for even a mildly-successful strike with my prudent eye overlooking. He knows better." Headmaster spoke wisely and firmly, not at all sounding like an elitist in his collected tone even. It was a crucial fact, after all.

"Hmm." Harry had intended to say something much more profound but his clouded thoughts overwhelmed him. "Then what can I do, Professor, to help?" He couldn't help but sound impatient because Dumbledore had to have summoned him for some practical purpose, and it'd be nice to get right to it in the current scheme of things.

Dumbledore seemed to sense this because his gaze brightened, raising his eyebrows pronouncedly and widening his eyes, and then seized the immediately opportunity to grant Harry his wish. Animatedly, Dumbledore leaned in forward to whisper a bombshell objective that seemed too obvious and too simple, and which momentarily made Harry wish Dumbledore had properly elaborated towards it first.

Hermione bit her nails apprehensively without any remote sign of calm forthcoming. She had absolutely been a derelict since the article had been published, since the twist of events really shattered everything and anything that seemed in place. The dementors had fled Azkaban spontaneously, which undoubtedly was the work of Voldemort and his secret minions, and which undoubtedly included the Malfoy family. And that included Draco, obviously, but what could she – or would she – make and choose to do with this tidbit? How was she obliged to do anything anyway, when she and Draco certainly were not even real friends, much less allies? Why was she different than any other barely acquainted peer of his?

Lost furiously in thought, she sat in her favorite armchair by the fireplace, and deeply sighing, Hermione finally concluded to herself: Honestly, I'm not really, but that's not how I'm going to interpret it when it comes to the sake of Harry and Ron, of everyone …

Feeling demolished by a two-faced motive, Hermione ran to find an owl to mail Draco - Immediately.

Draco read over the note during supper over and over studiously with a pronounced suspicion, despite Hermione's casual handwriting and two sentences were absolutely usual in its simple invite to meet tonight. It was the central erosion in the wizarding the world – the fleeing of the guarding dementors from the walls of Azkaban – swiveling his influencing protrude of suspect. After all, he was Draco Malfoy, and this was a preempted bombshell of his knowing that was incidentally meant quite a bit to both Hermione and himself.

Of course she is trying pry inside me, given she must think I have clues about The Dark Lord, Draco realized to himself wistfully, feeling confused by his hurricane0like senseless pull of feelings for Hermione against the ever-sinking aura of, well … reality. He was disheveled as he ate and re-read, emotionally inhibited [not that he'd ever admit so] from his conclusive guess that Potter and Weasley knew all about their "secret" meetings, joked about it ever ….

But he didn't want to believe this were true, and admittedly, would it not, and by all means in spitefulness, still seem a bit too far out-of-character for Granger to go through such unfair competitive means? She was a Gryffindor for Merlin's sake, which meant she prideful simply could not, did it not? There had to be something glowing, glowing like a faerie temptress beckoning them forward with her arms gestured towards herself, between them nevertheless because, moreover, how on earth could they otherwise be caught in such a realm of betrayal towards their lives' foundations for a greatest enemy? And - most importantly – after all, Draco thought all too deviously, how in God's name can I figure it out for sure without meeting Granger at the North Tower tonight, if I don't so reluctantly, muahahahaha, meet her wish – but also very decidedly he thought smilingly, or more explicitly, his calculations in its conclusiveness.

… And slyly concluded to, just like a true Slytherin, too twisted was this so very true in its secondary despitefulness: Draco assuredly and inevitably was also all too sure his Dad would be the ANTIHESIS to proud nonetheless.

It was midnight and unusually cold for September as Hermione awaited Draco anxiously but also guardedly with their meeting place's subtleness. The roof of the North Tower had proved successful in the past, and she was overwrought by the coldness in her bone-clenching thought and shake of her body muscles, that which deteriorated her heart's desired seek. Her heels pressed hard repeatedly against the stone floor in his five-minute thus fared delay. She panted a sigh resignedly, if slighted.

And then his own footsteps tapped from the corridor darkness leading from and back to the indoors of Hogwarts. They sounded to her, perhaps by a placebo of hope and denial, like equaled puzzlement, thereby a provide of deliriousness for herself which quickly subsided enough once his face shone past: figuratively, the silver gleam of his eye shone as if angelically-guarded, its preemptively glittered silver, its strikethrough-severe, calculated sway apparent in the stare. That stare gleaming deep into her strictly for the next hour.

He walked forth, slower uncertainly without the hiding shadows [ironically] in his pace - undoubtedly now to Hermione – until he slouched his arms over the stonewall edge that's end regretted on the pallid whiteness of his face. He did not or maybe could not suppress the mourning sigh that he blew out gaspingly in the leading silence his chosen. But she waited patiently until the moments passing no longer could prolong their obviously united expectation of a confronting heat of controversy. His eyes widely watched but did not stare exactly at her once she slouched over similarly at his level at the next resigned moment; on par, notably, was the described symbolic effect Hermione so well-minded.

Hermione allowed his pride to pass through them and allowed him to take the first words of welcome, emitting gentleness in shaking tone. "Granger – Hermione- why do we have to be surrounded by the familiar blockades of wizarding rivalry? WHY, why does what it have to be, especially, from what I once was so proud of, still am in ways, from pureblooded wizard heritage?" His tone dripped cynicism as if of regretful, secure-minded admission that was too unsustainable and awareness-restoring to withdraw mindfully; yet its scaring, unsettlingly, abruptly toned third-persona tone monologue, mostly in its finishing when it quieted and blew outward over her face, freezing her reddening ears, in a hazed, blithering wind that sung the atmosphere's anguish. "… Blocked by my security, something you may but, more probably, may not truly feel even despite whatever your words try to come across to me."

The bland boldness surprised Hermione as it unearthed a slighted coldness of tone, regardless to his well-intentioned [though twisted] demeanor. "I _never_ have yet requested, implored or placed any prerequisite whatsoever that you have to give me in demand and I _never _will, either."

Curiously, his words' blithering was unmatched pitifully to hers affirmed more appropriated its feel in Draco's vein like that of the sight of blood confirming a human death. It was not warmth, firmly thought, that filled and pulsed his veins. "Won't you?" he whimpered almost, for the first time in a forward shot bulleted by hope for their irresistibly poisoned gunpowder. "Won't you suddenly feel, needlessly really, _instinctively _I should say to not speak to me, your friends' sworn enemy?" It was begging her to confess a terribly obvious lie, almost.

"No." She affirmed, her tone as if annoyed by the forced need to do so.

An electric shivering, not accredited to the ping of the cold weather, traveled vibrantly through his spine, creating relief but also mysteriousness at its greater importance: Draco had willed apart compromisingly, for the space of _another_ - Hermione. Startling himself slightly, he swayed a slowed, acknowledging nod blankly, stunned, but as the shock settled he recomposed animatedly, then adamantly nodding as his features lit up for once in clearness of joy, not indeterminable as he often was. It felt securing, nodding to affirm what he knew was absolutely made a difference after the past few months of only dread … but now, now his revering mania of his thoughts seemed collected appropriately again, subsidizing the twisters clashing in his head. He wholeheartedly watched i_nto _her extraordinarily gaze with his silver eyes, sensationally somehow registering like a plea for empathy: Suddenly, his emotional identity preponderantly overwhelmed her mind, in a blink was no longer only Draco's but Hermione very prominently felt her mind stricken with containment as she felt an interconnected bind of empathy ignite; it was a knowingness simultaneously gravitating the two psychologically like a paradox, that someone wanted and was capable of compassion in the form they never experienced.

If Hermione could have enunciated properly how her imagination interpreted this, she would very eccentrically described their intertwining almost like that of a poetic couplet, a precise form of verse unlike all else.

Hermione felt humbled by her resigning, plain gaze that she had always led ungraciously with her mundane, large brown, half-crescent eyes that Draco preferred to actual moonlight. She didn't know how they confirmed to Draco imperiously that though she, too, was clueless of the future's blackness, their captivating gleam was a metal placeholder of an extraordinarily foreseeable, interrelated future. Draco did not forget the greater likelihood that he was not separating his reveries, so nice to drift and dream on, from reality out hormonal, teenage heartache. Maybe Cupid purposefully tricked their eyes, but he strongly contended their relationship had shown a power over words, in all fairness, itself profoundly rare anywhere. This warmth of thought restored an unusual brightness of rosy color at his cheeks as she identically lit up enthusiastically, too. Alas, viewing the same in her _finally _provoked him to answer her as though promptly, and moderateness rained calmly over his flaunted elitism most surprisingly, a flatter:

"Well - _Granger_ - my Hermione, I am indeed too pleased as that is, undoubtedly minded in yours and mine, the _only_ accurate rite of path. Needlessly said, obviously, being expectedly obvious from Hermione Granger - top of Hogwarts class, fifth year - the decidedly infallible, whose being so very wise is foolproof from missing a divine witness: the sight that, envisioned by all but never previous, reveals a reversed Draco Malfoy, myself stricken gorgeously jealous under greatly compromised pretense, mind you. A painstakingly affect of, well, _jealously_."A toast to himself in a pricelessly-delivered monologue that charmingly allowed the atmospheric melancholy between them no bearing, nor would he in any situation, because he played his talent in twisted humor for attention like it was a never-ending contest. It could have been a perfected, theatrical rehearse, but it was simply the persona of Draco Malfoy as everyone knew, more uplifted than all school year: dryly-humored, sarcastic, mean enthrall, and his sardonic cynicism which directed all else, still unfalteringly the intrigue impressionable to any given audience.

... And which Hermione, it is noteworthy, was glad to see it revived timely enough to make his awe-shattering incompetence the retrograde of "once upon a time." His cleverness, for better or worse, entertained amusingly nonetheless when it wasn't especially targeted with hateful speech, which she wouldn't allow herself to reminescence on now. Her laughter at Draco was sincerely grateful in its heartiness, ducking her own head over the stonewall balcony, trying to cover her mouth

from the loud giggles' misplacement in the time being.

Settling, Hermione propped her elbows on the stone railing, staring beatie eyes at his pompousness before offering a surprise retort of winning pithy. " ... It is a gift to witness, _Malfoy_, one you musn't unreasonably forget that I alone can mesmerize your foxy features in such clinical loss. It would be permanent now if it hadn't been for me, _Hermione!" S_he sung declaratively, resolution firing her tone in a half-joked lecture. They hilariously laughed, unstoppably dazed for a while away from matters even of greatest severity. They regained themselves and once turned to dwindled laughter, she ambled him to know something rather inhibitive to her self-being. "I never thought, you know, based on Harry and Ron and Krum just being the outstanding oddball of the earth, that I had much to compliment myself physically by that could compare decently. Not this overzealous pupil, surely not me, the uncool studiously obsessive witch. I? Not ever." Hermione rolled her eyes afterwards, her tone hinting in the direction of intro and not retrospective state, which he sensed by her blandly unmoved gaze.

_Hermione is in disbelief in me, that she's beneath me and plain-looking. How could she look in the mirror and reflect such a way of herself? _His thoughts wavered backwards to his erosive, ambiguous discomfort at the notion running through him. A greater burden was slammed upon femininity at the will of society, which Draco knew he could brush off if only funny enough in response. _No, I've got to say nothing here and just dismiss it casually as if I didn't notice, 'cause she only believes me on things like that if it's shown first_. Draco hadn't put forth much thought before on the matter, at least not seriously, as her suggestion was newly present on his weighed matters. Trickily, Draco luckily thought quickly to say, "Yes, well, now you know, Granger, that there's something out there you are actually stupid about!" He laughed as though she would agreeably, faking obliviousness well but at an immediately dismissal afterward.

Hermione smiled wryly, diplomatically inconsequential as she slouched over again unconvincingly, not knowing that she served to confirm his suspicion. She raised her brows as though to acknowledge he had at least not been disingenuous, but in her next statement was airily off topic. "Things are so unpredictable, Draco, and we absolutely cannot let anyone, without any exception whatsoever, find out about this." She spoke in a streak of severity, very strictly speaking, looking imperiously disconnected throughout and into her followed. "I have never done anything without plan, even with the boys I forced at least minute plans uncontrollably, because that's how I avoid failure at everything. This, though, is a political romance that I guess we've cleared each other to go on with."

Draco returned a resigned, agreeable look. "You know you could trust me without saying, on especially this of all things, which would be filled with a lot worse consequences on my end, trust me." His tone was overwrought by seriousness, almost scarred by its poorly masked terror that fearfully extinguished vulnerably but which also sharpened and intentioned his expressive glance, now flooded in unrecognized wariness. Consecutively, Draco's fixation did not falter impassion or resign its focused features at all, but rather they sprung his arrow that Hermione caught securely, relieving, returning his gaze … _trusting,_ she validated it by second nature or what have you. "I can't promise you I'll tell or involve myself with ..." His tone was beyond reluctant.

Hermione instantaneously beckoned back her affirmative speech. " ... And I won't _ask _unfairly either, so unless there are incidents where you may feel a little inclined to tell me something ..." She dwindled reservedly without feeling hopeful to try at all but also sharply confident, not becoming overwrought by reality's suffocating pull. "Though I _will_ tell you when something happens to me which could have serious consequences, or if I just feel it's important. For example, _the midnight hour's good warning is its disappearing dementors_. I know you know what I mean by that, too."

Draco lost all guard whatsoever, which ironically paved some validity to her joke that only she could save his clinical state. He didn't want those sorts of questions because he neither felt drawn nor disinclined to tell; his opinion was not mattering really, given the fact that he was obliged to, and deserved nothing less than, his own survival. If his father knew he had preemptive involvement with anything_ slightly _helpful to Harry Potter and Dumbledore, he would sooner avenge the Dark Lord. Lucius Malfoy wouldn't keep matters of the vaguest form withdrawn from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, especially not in parental arms of protect. And Draco minded well to these thoughts properly, his voice reserved and toned flippantly in regard. "Maybe, maybe not. You are correct to keepsake questions, Hermione, to not press information - attempt to, that is - from me. I'm foolproof from feeble manipulation." Draco first felt proud but then stupid for his excellent voicing, sinking at the picturesque of Hermione's disdainfulness.

Hermione glanced at him composedly, trying to not drift her disassembling emotions off course; Not withstanding, Hermione did allow a glaring moment of detachment come of her hurt feelings, hissing her ill-intentioned words. "Malfoy, please, do not presume to know any of my thoughts, feelings, or motives until I suggest anything. I don't need to be subjected to pointless infliction, thank you." Disdainful and blankly unfocused, her eyes filled and reddened from hidden tears, and Hermione turned away to avoid his seeing.

Draco felt like shit. He hardly managed to hear her slight and graceful tears, fainting him feeble before trying to apologize, if he could manage such a thing. "Look, Granger, that's not what I meant and I think you're not so unaware either. It's unfortunate but you would be less quick to invoke your judgments if you were in the _leverage_ to cast it," he explained without affronted means, nearly seeping in his buried compassion. "Your sorry later in the name of your friends is like a death wish - the best premeditative suicide - that you can believe."

Hermione must of heard his apologetic sincerity because she turned inwardly, closer to him than before. "I completely understand." One of the single times Draco guessed he'd ever hear her sound not elaborate like that. She herself hinted very apologetically, feeling ashamed of her unfair reaction.

"I know you do," Draco assured, nodding thankfully. "It's that I need you to know it's not meant to harm anyone by me saying so. When it's this subject at hand, to be frank, the first and last concern is my life's own very real mortality." He laughed hollowly.

Hollowness which, startlingly received, protruded a suffocating, palpable iced fear through her insides; loyal to her words, she did well to not show it on her face. "I do." She choked gaspingly but not obvious enough by far.

In an assuaging wave violently struck onto shore, Draco startled her yet again, though pleasantly this time, pulling her

closer without afraid and placed cold palms onto her cheeks safely. Finally and tiredly, his silver eyes shut desperately, Hermione's too, but she briefly hesitated to wrap her arms around his neck in return. Their hands unknowingly shivered simultaneously through every nerve in their body as they kissed tamely, culminating appreciation for the horrific reminder.

Despite its sickness that kills.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mudblood of Your Dreams: Part Four"

"I feel strange; I feel like I've known you before.

I want to understand you more and more, and more.

When I am with you I feel like a magical child; everything strange, everything wild." Madonna

It was September thirtieth and yet the weather withered weakly more and more from the moderate, rather pleasant temperature from the start of the month, but without any preamble like a militia throwing a white flag without an enemy in hindsight. Of course, the weather itself but more so from the noted latter, its spontaneous, not expected strangeness, and its current bolted anger rampant through Draco Malfoy; he sat in an arm chair, knees folded across his lap casually, trying to grasp the maximize receptive heat for himself by the fireplace. He wore a wool sweater and silk sleeping pants that matched the green spirit of Slytherin in thick layers. Draco believed it a plainly mediocre effort. Morosely, the unfixable circumstance averted the rather - "standoffishness" of his mutinously frozen glare, ironically, at the fireplace. The ineffectiveness, unknowingly, was nothing more than the gradual increase of impatience for the midnight hour - his rewarded time with Hermione - worsening at the display of shitty, unpredictable weather to soon be dealt with flaunted.

Strictly noted, however, he was Draco Malfoy, sarcastically prone to excuses for sulk and attentive intimidation from others, and had he not had Hermione to consider his sentiment would be more "expressed" out of sheer fun.

But then Draco was started by the grandfather clock that bled his ears and surely everyone else's with its extending chiming to signify the eleventh hour. He sighed just slightly, impressed by the speedy relief of time for once, and had straightened up to invite himselfinto Crabbe and Goyle's game of exploding snap on the centered oak table.

_Sixty minutes, hell, I'll be the ANTHESIS to my dismayed self by then! _Draco mentally weighed a newly-learned word with uncharacteristic airiness, a sour afterthought that he shook his head vehemently to ward off. _ Is this what it's like to have a girl turn your life upside down, a tormenting embarrassment of self?_

Moments later, Draco could be cleared of a fool, needlessly said, to presume forty five nonchalant minutes but at the sudden, piercing shriek of incredible laughter Draco certainly felt that precisely as he accidentally threw himself off balance as he raised from the armchair. It was too coincidental, the aftereffect his

Blood-splattered ears, to his overly-gracious arising but there was no time to appreciate this since Blaise Zabini fellow half to knees after an overdramatized, fearing motion from the common room entrance with an obvious abundantly-important piece of news. This seemed to obviously please her, Draco noting so by the sarcastically malicious enjoyment in her disgusting look. Draco had substantial bitterness that he religiously honored towards Blaise and her facade at being the daughter of Fred Zabini, seen through her indefinite, compassionless content. But momentarily, Draco proffered a slightest of tolerance - without tolerating. "Blaise, what's the matter? What's gotten into you?" Draco offered a palpably concerned, tricking voice within the sharpness of his tone, but to her unknowing it of course rested on his imminent midnight plans with Hermione. Draco's alertness animated his wondering, unfaltering eyes before Blaise, at her scoffing, humored maliciousness.

Gazing, Blaise did, done like trademark-showing under non-threatened, tough as nails demeanor but her eyes were hole-less from dissension. Something paramount had caused this...

She spoke conspiratorially, her tone secretively hanging her words, key or not, by her sick discretion. "The Dark Lord has left his rather dramatic but so, so sweet an impression at Hogsmeade, and yes indeed, the Dark Mark lay powerful in sustainment and it can be seen from Hogwarts!" she declared madly, heartened by whatever tragedy of some horror but thereof unknown degree. If Draco were told he would one day, someday beforehand, Blaise would finally moderate correctly her exaggeration in saying something serious, Draco would likely have responded, "Ha! That'll be a shock, for once maybe speaking to _try_ and validate her existence? Well then, the day you mean to indicate - at the end of the world as we know it, right?" His normal sarcastic self never would dream a moment taken for hypothetical _disbelief_, not ever with respects to required curiosity ever slanted such a way. Delved deeper, Draco's eyes burned a sight inconceivably all- damning to himself, the unanimous terror and equal excitement stricken onto most of the faces in the room depicting apathy and apathy alone; and yet it rather by its own was hardly but of a moment's withstood.

Then, an agonized but saving strange outburst of fogginess - closed by hazing, disparaging fumes, guardedly - that without warning overcame his better instinct in a pitiful losing of what felt to be his bodice completely in truth. Rather than unprovoked or questionably unspecific, Draco ticked his demising blow like an atomic bomb compressed for ions of time, then suddenly the cause of millions of deaths, his true sentiment; his mindfulness crept away dozens of thoughts each moment , blaring lightning as he dug deeper into an all-captivating, dizzy reverie immediate to the previous: the detonator, undoubtedly was Zabini's delight too apparent for the monumental message itself obviously, but rightfully too looked flabbergasted by the honor to deliver it.

" Mudbloods, MUDBLOODS ARE BEING TORTURED; LOTS OF THEM DO YOU NO WORRY! Not only, before you assume, those ones in Hogsmeade that don't matter to us. But no, less exclusive than an educated guess of any of yours, very elating is that there are some from here at Hogwarts, too, hostages amongst other various Mudbloods. But you'll find the next fact a home hitter, in a manner of speaking." A hideous, seething gleefulness elongated fixedly across her engaging audience, appreciating the built anticipation from her pausing.

Zabini's intense adrenaline rush, her thrill, intimidated so overbearingly she unknowingly forfeited, better than words could enunciate, how severe it all was out there; Blaise was an illustration terrifying and not contesting comparability, so to speak: the elongated, inhuman sneering of an empathy-lacking smile, flustered forehead, rosy-read cheeks; and she heightened her rev from the room's excitement, as if this were about Quidditch or something. His impatience fumed away, extreme curiosity his scabbard, his begun speaking - except without sound. His words poured like gasoline in self-mutilation rather in contrary.

Then, the continuation of the brief, moment-to-moment rapidly remarkable detachment of his sensing awareness receptively died in a blackening yet lightning rod of perish ...

Draco, undoubtedly, proved a second too late a shriek so loud it overturned what had possessed him. As he opened his slightly blared eyes, his senses no longer withered blindly away - And he sat up. Gasping and trembling reactively, Draco was stricken with uncharacteristic fear like never before.

It would be no different for anyone, respectively, of whom witnessed the glory of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It was halfheartedly resigning that he had, in restoring himself, awoken before it got more and more horrific. Indeed, the full moonlight shone pronouncedly through his stain-glass window, almost reminiscent of his nightmare in its vivid luminosity. It, Draco hoped, was nothing of a premonition and everything of intuition and

Anxiety considering tomorrow was October first: It was the final night of anticipation for Dumbledore's monumental speech, address that would undoubtedly aspire and inspire as usual with Dumbledore.

Or so he had precluded, maybe superficially. In contrast, this completely unique and extraordinary event would be susceptible to fall or rise in grace. Unforgettably, if one person could impel the very crucial, convent-to-repel truth, it _would_ be Dumbledore. It was a truth so imperative that he knew he could not fail because of any interpretation whatsoever, receive or reject, could save or damn massive amounts of innocent lives.

All of it really was bamboozling, especially at his watching of the sun much too early and much too sleeplessly.

*****

To Draco's complete unknowingness, his sleep alone was not possessed by darkened overtake. Hermione dreamed as Draco awoke, revering a greater depth, in spite, of vivid clarity and three-dimensioned completion of surroundings and characters:

_In a third--person uncharacterized, watchful on look, Hermione was prudently wary of all things surrounding: It was a mountain kingdom if guessed, beautiful of valleys, rivers and fortress completely naturalized. Dusk had fallen overhead in a pictorial masterpiece of a deeply crimson sky all-encompassing the scene. Beginning in her suspended viewpoint midair dazzled her but finished almost momentously, because she was pulled downward in a disorienting spiral over the beautiful green fortress for the last time ever until the very-pronounced, geographical heart revealed spacious clearings: The paramount vision Hermione witnessed now, an absolutely beautiful fuchsia-stoned, majestic-like estate: Standing fifty feet tall, two ivory towers stood within the boundary of the stonewalled safeguard that eerily decorated with malice-like gargoyles sculpturally. In between the two ivory towers, standing much shorter was a very sizeable Manor that lay on top a wide green plain surface, similarly colored in methodic hardening of stone. Stain-glass windows portrayed exquisitely theatrical, Victorian-era richness effectively but hauntingly, their red-and-black [separately] chosen colors reflected like a blaring, morbid death scene. And yet, the stone gargoyles on the pillars mirrored alongside the dark blue entrancing double doors were of inconspicuous alarm; most noticeably, these were of which multiplied methodically across the house, suspended off iron posts at leveled proximity to the stain-glass windows. _

_And in these thirty seconds, Hermione peevishly precluded this three-story, chill of an estate not appealing to the human eye by any means._

_Not withstanding, the impeccably-timed whirlwind sustained her through the air in highest alignment alongside the mansion: a domed command center sat, very three dimensionally rounded above level with the Manor edifice: unattractively, an intentioned, eerie dark surface unmethodically splotched the beautiful home with the solitary absence of color. And then in a suffocated pull, Hermione transported into the dome in a violent swift. _

_Hermione opened her blaring, disorderly eyes to a room in a black, overlying lighting. It was like color-altered sunlight, her first vision being a look outside through the blood-stained window which sourced the blackness. Peering properly, she was in a large square library as a matter of fact, six rows across on either end of the room in wooden shelves full of books, but a long wooden path separated between the window to big double doors down the snake-designed, intricate mat. On the opposing end the twin stain-glass windows stood consecutively and privileged view to its front, aligned with the last row of shelves predominantly; scenic viewing were a black-leathered long couch, an arm chair and rocking chair decorated a circular correlation in opposing placement around the centerpiece, large glass-case of three paintings viewable directly from one of the furniture pieces personally: the first illustrated a gruesomely violent battle scene with a beheading's leftovers emphasized, faced by the armchair; secondly, in face of the long couch, the portrayal of an Arabic, riveting and insurmountable, wand-holding female soldier composed the artist's sentiment of glorification and vigilance in her stance; thirdly, a Victorian-Era messy-haired, oval-headed boy with wide cheekbones and curious brown eyes prominently. He was illustrated tipping his French cap in a photogenic sideway stance, and he smiled elatedly. Noteworthy was the last's make for a rather large contrast, facing the rocking chair perhaps indicatively. _

_Gigantically noteworthy, light years beyond the former respectively, definitively were the parties _filling_ the individualistically-specialized seating: Lucius Malfoy sat on the armchair in too perfect concentration, like stonewall, at the war illustration; the exception, curiously, were his tremulous, tightly-fisted hands at the end of the armrest, unmoved by contention. It was horrifying over all social mannerism, liveliness detached as he stared fixed conscientiousness at the illustrated replica of gory battle. Not unpredictably, his company included was that of Richard Zabini, Blaise Zabini's father, and that of his wife, Narcissa, whom herself illustrated a delicate portrayal of the Arian profile. Expectedly, the Death Eaters were poised alike almost vicariously, the library's inhuman affect. But then --_

_Time sped forward again as a storm of radiating bright lights of blinding colors, numerously configuring pronouncedly however in an overly of white flash. And then the scene remained, except the very noticeable absent springtime given the outside snowstorm, rather than moderate spring blossoming. Time had progressed itself as least by months where the three sat together agreeably but very contrasting in demeanors: their previous unanimated appeared were replaced oppositely, this time animatedly terse expressively in a passion-blessed debated._

_"--Lucius, Draco is _armless_, a rookie untrained, a toy figurine more so than a soldier!" Narcissa grounded remoteness in her tone, her hands rested on her lap as she leaned forward despite Lucius' scowl. "There's no withdraw to the debt on Draco, never suggesting such treason, but I _am_ his mother even during his service to the Dark Lord, Lucius! Your son is inexperienced, a fifteen-year-old pupil whom surely would try for chauvinism! You know Draco!" _

_Narcissa guardedly deemed herself not a slightest affectionate gesture to proffer, yet the desperate plead for understanding burned empathetic, motherly motivation arguably almost touched by begging. Nonetheless, it was received by Lucius with a scoffing seethed in underwhelmed dismissal. Very showing, consequentially, was their bond's weakened wave in the atmosphere very much at Lucius responding, "Narcissa, you're letting your emotions drive in, be sensible! Draco will be secured under the intelligence, insightfulness and incorrigibility by the most capable teacher: the Dark Lord." Lucius' detachment from at least relating, if not feeling his own fatherhood, to the mother of his son whom concerned herself profusely. _

_Zabini looked paranoid perhaps, calculative certainly and seizing opportunity to speak after obviously suffering the divided duo's disengaging him. He waved a hand behind him at shoulder-level, equal in engagement. Zabini thus confidently interjected a deliberate wording in s prudently-whipped tone. "The Dark Lord - whom I may add is the sole decider through and through, not either of you whom voluntarily sanctioned Draco at childhood." Zabini begun his monologue coolly but articulately, testing an entrance in his revealing disapproval at their parenting. Fixedly, Richard Zabini glanced at Lucius especially with noticeably forced patience. "Could this not be absolved, Lucius, given the Dark Lord has twice expressed current disinterest? Can it be moderated, you treating Draco never like a son of yours, not nearly as much like an entry at a bidding contest?"_

_Lucius was stricken in scourged rejection, smiting both their redundant arguments to the necessary degree, totally ignoring Narcissa's adamantly nodding agreement. "You are foolish bleeding hearts, what has maddened you so?" Lucius dramatized a punctuated survey that sarcastically mimicked discerning, as if sickeningly detectable, very unfunny to them. "In war, the greatest men prompt their assailants at diversified avenues as to intimidate the enemy with their own corrupted allied land! We must prove suffice an army, which we are disadvantaged, untimely in our minority unlike before Harry Potter. In spite, our nobility must arise to the commence of the magnificent Dark Lord, to his appealing and eventual gratitude, assure yourselves ... " Lucius voiced himself so passion-filling that itself may have been enough for the morale of an entire army illustratively, alike the pressure of his strongly-clenched fist straightened upwardly at chest-level._

_His demeanor sustained itself on imperiousness, imperiousness alone. _

_The reverie of his long-dwelled repelled empathy and compassion in their being an unfitting clash, obviously, to the greatest of importance: Lucius Malfoy died and lived on the determination to fulfill this long sought but never neared success over Mudbloods and Blood Traitors, the conquer of the Dark Lord; he rested utmost importance on his soldiering composure appropriate in the service of the Dark Lord alone._

_Hardly, however, did his monologue breech agreeable passion in either argumentative party, Zabini first to express this patronizingly. "You overzealous fool, overindulgence is unfitting and mission suicide plausibly if manic ... " Zabini spoke down to Lucius like an elitist, as though in the presence of an underwhelming crackpot of Mudbloods. At this thought, Zabini laughed an ear-cringing highness in a support of hollowness, too powerful condescension to bring forth mirth as anything but last on the list of responses. _

_The two were obviously allied only technically by the Dark Lord's friendly fire, categorically speaking. Narcissa knew and yielded this potential torrent. "Yes, Richard, whereas a number of principles we and most inherited and perfected with practice in adulthood, Lucius remains unhardened and brings forth rashness to the table. Lucius, I must forewarn you for the future's sake of your petulance and impatience, how these as such derive of primitive instinct. It is what will exile you in Azkaban ... "Narcissa described herself quite palpably indeed, tone bold and bland rather than alerted by Lucius' flaming refutation throughout its entirety._

_Trembling with frustration, Lucius pressed a fist malevolently their way without falter, his tremble unnerving rather than distorting. _

_****_

_Readied appropriately, it was that which wholeheartedly triggered a horrifying, ingenious interruption beyond that of any given guest. Formidable of the strongest playwright's enactment, the guest entered with a slam through the double doors to their opposite, a violent pull nearly of their mounted metallic handles; a tall, frightful figure imperially marched in a hiding dark cloak and oversized hood, even inside the Manor _

_Lord Voldemort effortlessly made his strut of righteous superiority down the carpeted path._

_Reaching midpoint between himself and them very spaciously on the appropriately serpent-intricate carpet, Lord Voldemort provided "solace" after dropping his hood to his detestable face: "Your wife and Zabini, Lucius - Preciousness of minds and of Death Eaters - speak the tongue of reasoned calculation which to yourself is impossible an art." The Dark Lord speech was uniformly bellowing in greatness alongside the underlying sinister in tone. It never lightened for any familial-like followers, and never heard without electrifying superior suspicion; even those of his totally good faith were stricken, if very shortly only. The fearfulness delivered by his demeanor, of worst in impassivity and passivity respectively, left his minions afflicted by anxious stressfulness: be it as it may the handed agenda, their concerning option only to succeed his bidding or else unpredictable consequences could and would affront._

_Rightfully, however, Narcissa and Richard appeared openly pleased but composed, oppositely to Lucius' resigning, stone-cold appearance similar to the previous scene rather. But their reactions preceded the Dark Lord's mirthless laughter, a mocking howl in itself more accurately, but returned his very severe, hardened stare that deposed like X-rays from his empty slits of eyes. Clearing his throat, he momentously conceded the discussion indefinitely in exercise as the Imperial Executive. "However, bid Lucius not unwell because many successes were heavily thanks to his schematics, to his designing attack that indeed is prominently a manifest of overzealousness. _That_, precisely, is the minion a true mastermind must yearn and sanction himself no less." _

_Narcissa and Richard were discontented by the afterthought. Lucius lively revitalized in his gleaming silver eyes and slightly-gaped mouth in an awestruck gaze. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named may or may not have vindicated Lucius further in agreement, it wouldn't be known yet, only a second laughter of his making, worsened in a hollowing shriek of sound -_

Hermione's eyes flew open and reflexively pulled into a half-upright position on her orderly mess of blankets wadded over her. It was like, very noteworthy, the first breath taken after being tethered breathlessly underwater for a sizable amount of time. And instantly, Hermione recollection the pieces, which had been less in substance of dreamy fuzz than it'd been a close relation of high definition: images were sharp frame-to-frame technically, details in each of her surroundings much too vividly recalled. And they were too sequenced by time and space, too. The overlying reasoning thought, not surprisingly, was Hermione's acknowledging Harry, whom himself had dreamed very real premonitions accurately before. Could it be assumed right that she very specifically was a target of a mental feedback loop? Still, her doing of with that informative would be hardly select to a single choice. Nonetheless, the captures embedded colorfully a surface never dreamily encountered in fifteen years of mindless dreaming; Hermione, unsuitable, paid little or no attention to dreams and never remembered anything substantially, that being the characterized self-forgetting in her consciousness of _reality_. And only weighing its irony more so, Dumbledore delivered his speech this evening and that made for seriously wicked spookiness.

The chill of October first slipstreamed through her dormitory at dawn breaking. The sky was a light-blue, mildly-fogged this morning, and hopefully would stretch across the day given the fullness in numbers that would be attending tonight's all-spectators' speech. And yet, like a rush of adrenaline, the morning dew and various natural volumes sounding off a symphony instrumentally that soothed Hermione for the first time ever before. Returning her oxygen and livelihood, the natural mode of things embodied Hermione safely back from the borderline mindset between reality and fantasy.

****

Author's Note: The long time gap between two and three was the result of college and writer's block [in terms of this story], among other things. The fifth chapter will be the last, which is two more than I originally planned.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**: I am going to Panama for a month-long vacation starting tomorrow and ingenuously this last pat grew too excessively lengthened for finish. Here is the first part:

Mudblood of Your Dreams: Part Five

"Everyone can take from you,

And Everyone can bleed from you.

They can tear your guts outs, too. "

"Nigger of Your Dreams", Hole

****

The overcrowded pandemonium in the Great Hall was a rapidly enlarging embodiment of numerous reporters, Ministry officials, Aurors and Professors beginning to gather. In an hour's time - at an historically all-inclusive monument in the wizarding world, explicitly speaking - a universal congregation of concerned witches and wizards would hear a most devastating but crucial piece of wretched news. Various visitors across continental divides would be present like never before to fill the gap specified for universal invite tonight indeterminably. Not withstanding, Dumbledore expected the universally-broad diversity to socially still distinguish strategically through the sociologically second-natured, three audience split: The first filled the ideal whom were correctly discontented entirely by Cornelius Fudge's Ministry, the second comprised those whom were only now concern-stricken by Dumbledore's imperious alert, and the predominant third contained everyone else more discrepantly as potential targets that proffered willing, open ears and rationalized the least bias. Every witch and wizard would undoubtedly be swayed in some way, not disputably: Perhaps an enlightenment too bright to deny its profound and seriousness, that or maybe total detachment from allying view in a distancing, unimpressed stray just as easily, however, and just as easily could current allies act unideally all the same, too. There were so many variables: so complex, so near irretrievable, so uncontrollable, so fluctuate.

The common room, meanwhile, was unusually empty, not surprisingly, but Harry had vouched to await until Showtime to report down. He sat by the fireplace in his favorite armchair while his mind raced a marathon of endless questions. It is definitely a greatly historical night, that's for damn sure, Harry concluded easily as he anxiously awaited. And I doubt we'll lose credibility in exchange for disbelieving disregard, at least not across the board, anyway. Despite the anxiety - which at the moment was but a degree up from the excruciating worst from his "foxhole" encounter in the graveyard, remarkably - he remembered Dumbledore's power compelled like none existent else unarguably. After all, Harry had to take a somewhat trusting outlook on their world overall as one that encompassed intelligent wizards and witches, or otherwise forfeit rational prospects. It was the given glamour to vaunt that the wizarding world, greatly undermining Muggles of course, co-existed peacefully most of the time, generally anyway. Too easily, Harry also conjured wistful recalls of Buckbeak, on Pureblood racism, imagined the time before his in the eleven years that Voldemort terrorized.

Meanwhile, dusk fell. It quickly paced, too, gulping the last bits of shimmering sunlight with untimely speed, the await of the seventh hour rapidly decreasing. The rapidness transgressed in his anxiety painfully, worsened psychosomatically by the overlying dread of apprehension on his unsettled mind. Harry pensively was half-lost in reverie as he trembled by the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room, his choice of harbor for thirty minutes now but still less effective than usual. Morosely sitting half-cozily in his favorite armchair closest to the flame [which normally felt blissful], Harry flirted skittishly in a swirling overtake of deep memories; they were vividly real, not before long landing in-sync with the bloodstained memory that paralyzed him powerlessness: The graveyard night, the insurmountable haunting. Differently, however, Harry focused a pronounced pause in a meditative strive to beat its effect that failed almost instantly, as usual, once succumbed by outrageous suffocation of a psychosomatic, tightness-embodying smother. He gasped a choking few partial breaths for the scared moment or two afterwards, as usual, when he three-dimensionally felt he was there, a moment of psychological regression.

Remarkably, Harry cleverly instead envisioned explicitly the surreal, though absolutely horrifying, unworldly part when he first witnessed the apparition of his parents, utilizing Patronus-like skills. Unbelievably, for the first time ever the pain actually subsided effectively as he controllably recalled almost tangibly their heartbreaking save of his life. It had been spontaneously unpredictable: his life's best witness had incidentally come of the worst witness of horror in his life when his and Voldemort's wands malfunctioned in duel, and then subsequently had coincided with the fiercer horror. Harry saw a strong apparition of his parents that almost looked solid in fact, yet only in "ode-like" chronologically-ordered apparitions of Voldemort's recent murders grotesquely, sickeningly beautiful a sight: in mid-air his terrified but determined parents stood, protecting him for the second life-saving time, and eerie as their more bodily-like figment was, what had summoned momentously in spite was the stagnated beauty of two moral people less than ten years his senior. Harry had received comfort instantaneously from their presences without explanation, composing familiarly more so as Harry listened with romanticized nostalgia to their instructions. Harry of course knew this had been nothing but the suspense of a moment since obviously he had never known his parents, but now he irrationally mused that maybe it was the phenomena of nurturing entitlement that casts between a truly loving parent and child's accepting sanction. To Harry, however, such phenomena would forever be to his unknowing ....

Thoughts of Lily and James Potter, parents and great heroes, were both solacing yet disheartening, too, inevitably.

Harry's pensive state begun to dwindle, not surprisingly, as lethargically he was towered by miss, anxiety, confusion, from feeling disconcerted to solemn, alone ... He imagined vicariously of how his parents would aid him today. Excruciatingly, however, Harry felt a great anger stun at the surface of this hypothetical because had Lily and James Potter been alive, he, Harry, would neither be facing this situation nor would he have suffered any of the mostly worse previous scenarios. That was a truly frustrating paradox, a "mindfuck" if you will, that the human brain could only comprehend so far into sanely, and though Harry seldom ever felt so deeply philosophical all together, somehow he found this hard to shake off.

Someone entered the common room abruptly, the portrait door slamming open and startling Harry rather sharply. Unexpectedly, a very paled and troubled, badly-postured Hermione walked over to him. She looked surprised but slightly uplifted [though that said little, considering] in greeting Harry, still rather faint, and then fell onto the rocking chair next to him. Harry was intrigued by her level of aggrieve which was visibly uncharacteristic: firstly, she obviously could not contain her emotions properly at all, alone very unusual for her to be so tersely disrupted at self; and secondly, why on earth was she reacting hundred times worse than normal, anyway? It was a big night but Hermione appeared as though her life had, lightly termed, ill-tipped drastically on the scale.

"Hermione? Are you alright?" Harry asked concernedly, alerted, now practically free from his reverie. "You look terrible." He was taken aback by his own severely trembled tone.

****

Harry knew so little.

Hermione wasn't much of a cynic but was in a sense darkly humored by Harry's reception towards her frail, all-painstaking state that had dumbfounded his terse, mystified goggle much too animate. She tried not to imagine what Harry was suspecting, without need of any stress unrequested right now, especially now more than at any other point of time thinkable, notably: As Hermione irrationally felt an immense frustration of failure that she was unable to write or erase time favorably, a situation with Draco illuminated less than five minutes ago being rather "excusable", the feeling of psychosis escalating momentously and Hermione consequently now reached the brink of fainting. . She tried to still in the armchair without much success, suspected she appeared melodramatic and embarrassing, and felt ashamed of her rather sour, overly-strong reaction. But torture knows no moderation, apparently, because as if every muscle in her body knotted just as her stomach was punched, Hermione unguardedly was swept by the overwhelming guilt and shame of her ultimate, burning secret: Hermione's double, "Draco-included" life miserably peaked in a double glass-charring twist of pain that hadn't contained her anytime throughout. Harry and Ron had been her absolute best friends for what felt like eternity by now, and yet had she even properly fathomed the depth of her dissension, of her possibly endangering deception?

Hermione was unsure of what to make of Draco's sloppy letter, well, other than it served a poorly-written farewell. Something really bad was either going to occur or already occurring at sidelines, seemingly. IN fairness, Draco noted that his haste to send her the letter was plenty risky enough, and how even its complete ambiguousness, tentatively if found, was a lifetime of incrimination. This wasn't insulting, if not a bit exaggerated, because it was apparent that their lives could be secured than greatly endangered in a moment's pass.

_So, it's not that I'm not understanding_, Hermione tried to make logic of her own feelings as she at in the common alone with Harry. They were the only ones around because everyone else was already lost by the mix of mayhem. _He was simply, I suppose, my first boyfriend and we liked each other - a lot. I know this._ Seeing little resolution in hindsight, Hermione precluded to _that_, and to the bottom line that Draco was certainly not, and could not, lying about any of this She was certainly unlike so many other people their age [all through life, honestly, who find greater importance in themselves in relationships. She was a little less selfish than and, as always with Harry and Ron indefinitely, too, Hermione's prime concern was that he would make it out of whatever woods he wasn't telling her about. She didn't want to see so bad, but how could Hermione _no_tbe disconcerted at their "endpoint", or be it whatever, in which she was left with the total possibility that Draco was in "Mortal Peril"; indeed, Hermione found the Weasleys' clocks to be a really intriguing relative comparison, in a sense.

She lay back pitifully in physical concession [and mentally too, really], shutting her eyes wearily, paranoid now of seeming conspicuous alongside deliberation so crucial, it terrified her. What travesty was is this year, and early on at that?

****

Draco had perhaps never felt this kind of all-encompassing, bone-chilling, psychologically torturous, never-ending torrent of fearfulness in his life. Hardly blamable, though, considering the time read ten to seven now, indicating in ten minutes Lucius Malfoy would be here, in the Slytherin Common Room, to take Draco to "initiation." Something worse than hell was going to happen tonight, Draco was of first to know, and he sorely hoped that Hermione had by all means received and read his letter immediately. He still felt the rush he'd gotten from managing to actually send it so sneakily and speedily, his most inarticulate, uncharacterized but also most important, crucial letter to Hermione ever.

And perhaps his last too. Its nature was hastily uncharacteristic than any of the more important letters. In fact, the severe degree of this emergency was actually well-signified by these decorative off-set normalization: Visibly immediate, the sight of its scribbled letters unfamiliarly opposed the usual decoration of pretty penmanship; articulateness, secondly, were lettered respectively with care and yet this was exceptionally poor of ambiguousness. Understandably, Draco couldn't just give a direct explanation, a crestfallen farewell, of these much too painful events when he had nothing whatsoever to base positivity on. Deep down, he of course was well-aware that his lacks were in part selfish, uninformative in the most critical period as of yet. Regardless, he simply had not "reinvented" enough to hearten an open co-dependence on even Hermione, and Hermione would also know it stifled him, too, but that didn't incline him exactly.

_Fuck, it's already ten to seven - My world's is going to crumble, destruct speedier than the blink of my eyes. _Beside his own self, Draco concernedly thought that if he told Hermione that at seven o'clock tonight his father would be arriving ever so pleasantly, she would be thereof compelled to besiege his rescue, death wishing like a real Gryffindor. So this, too, was part of why he withheld these considerations from her, refusing to place her life in endangerment over rescuing him. She was the cleverest witch he or most of Hogwarts knew, undoubtedly, but this was not a comparable scenario because she just hadn't the leverage to square in whatsoever. They had been dating what, less than a month even, and they couldn't misled their hormones into a loss of life! Why then, Why do I still feel like pure shit, don't I know it's right what I'm calculating?

But his bamboozled mind remained impaired emotionally, making its move down the list of priorities as the dungeon door banged open: with ear-bleeding conviction Lucius Malfoy slammed it shut with more conviction still, intent on impoliteness as he strutted a path Draco's way. Out of all things, the culmination of Lucius Malfoy was his ability to intimidate whosoever into believing he were twice their height, in a sense; frankly, this amounted to his grey, compassionless eyes, x-ray eyes almost threatening to look right through you with great ability, too. Draco watched his father approach, feeling reproachful yet frightful, not arising for a stalled moment, unwilled in every way. Finally, Draco arose and leveled face-to-face to Lucius, slanting his view away from his nightmarish eyes. Interestingly, across from each other at the fireplace, the Hell-like background well-framed the atmospheric tense unfriendliness.

Draco immediately flinched, in spite of himself, but it hellishly could work, perhaps in reversal of psychology, to appease Lucius with its satisfaction. He was unsure of how to act, whether to cordially brush politeness off himself somehow? Or rather, did Lucius want his tough-as-nails son[usually, anyway] to thrillingly sheer excitement, even cheekiness? Did he want to see impressionable pride in a so-called-gift that banished his free will? Was this plausible to expect, even for Lucius, in consideration that free will was not his own to enable? That opposite, instead, was that his enable was theirs to control? That, at he then had to follow path for the "destined" becoming of he, Draco, a greatly-talented Death Eater? Draco did not presume silliness in that his father's mind was unsettled partially by his son's apparent disgust, more than reluctance, by the scenario. The Dark Lord, but of course, was prioritized in front of Draco by all means, but wasn't not actually all unlikely that Lucius was anxiously worried about Draco's bid? Whether Lucius did ill-suspend midair from the extraordinary or not, Draco had to admit, visible alone was his soled, inhuman blankness that dictated his demeanor. No such lively emotions, leaving not a guess of internal dialogue, basically averted his appearance any vulnerable hypothetical. Lucius was infallibly unapproachable by any situational cleverness, so Draco's face fell into surrender inevitably, because after all he was left without an idea whatsoever that forwarded benefit. Could Draco not have a humbled luck that subdued the lack of any eventual hope? He couldn't comprise half that, not observation evenly halved by irrationality and a survival strife?

Overwrought by hopelessness, Draco tried to ignore his father's scoffing degradation but its sharpness enlarged in way of his "gestural greet", per say,: Lucius effortlessly mocked Draco by downing preemptive strike, the intimidator that unleashed a Draco out-of-character, a personified, unquestioning obedience, that is to say. Nevertheless, Draco's pride wished that pathway would open a real possibility but, after all, his father could falter the wished notion unsuccessful even at a genie's ascension. Preliminarily last, Lucius assailed his x-ray eyes greater-than-ever-before, felted icily crossing across his internal mind-set. Draco dazed weakly at the coldness so blank and so detached in his father's silver-slit, glinting x-ray eyes ..

It was as if, briefly, Draco had deepened into the eyes of Satan, or someone very evil.

And then he spoke in eloquent loftiness, a misfit which would be perfect at a dinner party, but rather not on the most sensitive day of his life. "Draco, Draco ... We meet each other at least, that it to say, after so long of awaiting your initiation!" Draco's half-hid, revolted disgust was all the more enabling to a very belated Lucius. "Why is it only yourself that you've concerned with these days, Draco? You and I were very close not too long ago." His voice was sarcastically wistful.

Draco looked far from amused, bemused if anything, because it was an unneeded, pointless lie – but it his burst of anger was _really_ nuclear, rather. He fell onto his armchair, exhaling deeply, but could silence himself for about thirty [commendable] seconds before he looked up with a furious glare. Retorting, not withholding back a damn thing, his core of hatred was outward in a dangerous-sounding speech, anger overly-visible as well: "Father, do you have ANY compassion for others, do you ever feel bad all of the horrible things you've done? Do think your brutal ways, your snaking of your horrible self, all for _Him_ is anything but that of a co-dependent, coreless minion!" It wasn't a question, and it didn't offer a single but of solace, either.

Lucius at first maintained himself almost with affect responsively, if not a bit humored, even; but after being attacked so viciously on his own character, Lucius was seconded by absolute lividness. Lucius still vaunted that ever-present sadistic smile, though, and he'd obviously taken a moment to realize how enjoyably easy he could intimidate him, make very sorry. And now, evidently, Draco unintentionally [at the time] had decoratively smeared emotion unstoppably on his demeanor, which, in fact, was unarguably superficially linked only to his fury. Securing that guess with what normally have been humor, Draco felt that being taken hostage by Death Eaters and family-alike would leave funniness behind, probably entirely. It was this, obviously, alone that made enjoying even just a moment henceforth retarded, as far as Draco saw it. His father's overly-ambitiousness, his possible anxiety that his son would fail as a prototype, inclined Draco speculatively. _He _is_ concerned_ _about whether I'll ever make a proper commitment, for good reason, too …. I'll bet he's on the Dark Lord's watch, too …_

Less than surprisingly, his drifted thoughts were blown off course in consideration that Lucius contentiously faced a near spontaneous combustion. Roaring back in a very "upset" tone, Lucius fought right back the viciousness, impressively, with weapons similar but better. In a hiss of pure hatred, Lucius spoke with sick, detached amusement. "Draco Malfoy, Draco … I never thought I would live to see the day where I'm this ashamed of you. You have dishonored yourself entirely as a Malfoy, you are but the family's biggest TRAVESTY! Listen here, boy, you've better get back in-check about where your loyalties lied," Lucius began powerfully. The hubris intonation definitely was waived by very, very fearing intimidation, but he did mainly, and his talented greatly had a forlorn effect on Draco, anyway. Lucius continued on heedlessly, fueled by the successive effect on him. "You know something, Draco? I would not be surprised if one day you surprised all us by becoming a blood-traitor, God-forsaken, at which case, though, you'll most likely be already long gone from this family tree!" His father beamed at finish of this prediction, adding an unsurprising sick dose of piercing, cold and loud laughter. The unfathomable gaze alighted again , fully-strengthened, as did his thrilled excitement on the current.

It was pure narcissism and sadly Draco knew he formerly reflected his father meticulously [and admittedly still facade the public uniform of himself, if moderated]. He would be intrigued to understand why he and so many others could not, without the means of knowing to, be compassionate towards other unlike them. It's if mistreatment of others is fine if you are supportively backed by other ignorant people, apparently. He would be intrigued to understand this someday. Most resonating, the most striking repulsion originated at his father's mentioning "Blood Traitors", and funny enough that he would become one. Considerately, Draco wondered what was to say, or more wisely, NOT say to that? Again, he was an infinite number of self-surprises because he'd presumed before, hypothetical to his dating Hermione at the time, that he might mild himself less prejudice, but to go this far was outstanding; was he really going to dispel the person who made him that way, and happily so, for so long? Tentatively, despite the moral conviction of it all, was it logically worth the risk?

_No, it's not - not by itself it bloody hell isn't_, Draco rather strongly opinionated, deciding to himself, _I hate this man, and I won't hide part of who I am when it's only _him, _and for others hatefully like him, too, _Just a moment had passed by since his father's speech, which had caused Draco to slouch over on the armchair to stare at the ground, but now he readied an answer. He cleared his throat ennuciatedly, the epiphany leaving behind his coward self, miraculously, because without much calculated preamble; Draco battled the most controversial moment of his lifetime with an unrehearsed, "im promptu "speech":

"Father, I am sadly going to make light of some very, _very_ upsetting news for you," Draco begun affirmatively, strong if but, well, _extremely_ anxious. But then he suddenly, but not at the bafflement on his father's face, actually, even though it indeed was priceless. Changing his angle swiftly since he didn't need to give him a huge explanation, Draco executed himself at blunt force. "I _am _a Blood-Traitor, at least half way, given I'm not married. I cannot hide from you, not from my father whom I until recently was so close to, given. My serious girlfriend, to your acknowledge is a Muggle-Born, in actual fact.

The about-face was hurricane-potent and disastrously singled-out a long series of critical emotions: Lucius was mystified, enraged, so disgustedly humiliated he had no emotional handle in a volcano-like reaction. In fact, because of this melodramatic exasperation, Lucius leaded degrees of unbelievable contentiousness; still, his emotional containment equally -halved its regret and galvanization. In spite, passing a last moment of clear thought, Draco felt a positive solace arise of the "outing" vindication; lucky that it served last, unfortunately; immediately,

Lucius SLAUGHTERED forth his wand with strong list of words, his disheartened fury:

_" ... Draco, what is she than, what is she beyond filthy-bred origin? If she worth destroying your character, that salvaging. Is SHE Draco, The Mudblood of Your Dreams?"_

_l_


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Foreword: **It's been great fun writing this little story, if a bit of a scattered experience undoubtedly. When I left for Panama in July I had only done about half of it and then a month later when i returned I nearly finished it but only now got around to editing and finishing it correctly because I started my college fall term a week after I got back. Some of you will probably be dissatisifed with the ending but be mindful that I chose it very specifically for I strongly believe it is the most fitting regardless. Enjoy.

Mudblood of You Dreams: Part 6

"_And I can tell that you have come to burn me down,_

_And I am at your feet in ashes._

_"And this will end in tears with all lost and none found - _

_But I will have my revenge_." "Sunset Marquis", Courtney love

Hermione was seized by the surreal take of circumstances appropriately: In a rush exceeding time and reason, Harry and herself were storming towards the Slytherin dungeons to "save" Draco. Somehow, anyway. Needlessly said, their being without clue or direction drastically lowered the chances of success, logically speaking anyway, not that that had any bearing on their mode of pursuit. Rather, Hermione interpreted Harry's extraordinary bout of moral regard for the enemy second only to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Draco Malfoy in crystal fact, nothing more than that intoxication to save others that Harry was vociferously noble for. Be it as it may, it was of little matter that Draco Malfoy was the endangered victim, and that was simply because Harry was the most moral person she knew _all_ the time, not at his own convenience; hence, the matter of conflict was merely that there _was_ a victim in endangerment. Harry had broadcasted bluntly how appalled he was by her recent track record clearly, but once Hermione got to explaining the mysterious, malignant peril spawning Draco this evening, it did not withstand Harry's instinctive dash to save Draco's life. He, Harry, was compelled by shock and utmost vigor, or so Hermione noted appreciatively. Immediately, the two had evasively sped around the Great Hall and inconspicuously made their descent into the dungeons.

And it was not long into their tip-toe creep through the dimly-lit stone passageway before their antagonist became a three-dimensional barricade that unideally demolished their infiltration:

Lucius Malfoy towered the shadows of the corner ahead tyrannically, a mere thirteen feet to their forward, visibly gleeful rather than bothered by the enemy disturbance at hindsight. Suspending their lives with a point of his wand, a loss of fearlessness for a _catch_ of fearfulness inundated in them instantaneously as they struggled to face the fifty foot giant afront. Hermione and Harry separately shuddered at the paradoxical pulse shouldering Malfoy's harsh, inhuman hiss, catching them off guard. "Throw your wands aside NOW_! If_ you want to live that is. Potter, you filthy half-breed, we meet again - " Lucius turned to Hermione and spouted a bulge of laughter at his own sarcastic options, arrogantly continuing his mockery even more maliciously. " ...And how nicely we are joined by _you_, Granger, his filthy little Mudblood sidekick." Lucius spared few a moment to appreciatively survey the profiles of his terrified, dwarf-turned hostages, and it visibly greatened the liveliness already ignited on his features; no more did he beam, though, than in his murderous and maddened, delight-stricken smile. His eyes rolled between them slyly in a pulverizing moment that felt as though they were being looked _through_, like Lucius' grey eyes were two dissenting x-rays.

They were the eyes of Satan, no doubt.

He maintained a firm, perfect grip on his wand and scoffed arrogantly to show for it. "I would guess stupidly if I were to assume this was some sort of bizzare coincidence, Potter, am I correct?" Lucius blazed his shiny white teeth at him, arching his left eyebrow with very sarcastic affection. "I rather venture the three of us were chanced with this lovely surprised meeting because you were _up to something no good!" _Lucius sharpened the tone of his hiss, enunciating himself with a clear of his throat that was still gracious, if swayed contentiously; psychologically, of course, Malfoy _seethed_ his grey eyes through them again, blazing as if they were a lightning rod that sparkled in hazardous rampancy. "You scum, Potter, don't tell me you dare try to interfere with my plans tonight?"

Harry had froze some time ago, now taken from his feet at the direct interrogation, the surprise struggling him indecisively; he weighed whether to find a helpful response somewhere in his mind, alongside whether he _should _give a response at all, if he were assuming either option could be less terrible atall. Harry attempted to compose himself calmly, settling his trembling nerves and muscles mildly, if at all truthfully. This was not custom for Harry to so pridelessly cower to anyone so egocentrically evil, which Harry felt only a supernatural drawing allowed him to succumb this. Thus, in a raspy tone at the persuasion of a divine power or otherwise, in a raspy tone Harry said evenly (somewhat), "Maybe." That was all he could think to say, far from clever. Luckily, the first bout sufficed the second, "Expecting to just stroll on out through the front door, Mr. Malfoy?" Harry tried to return Lucius' sardonic smile but failed pitifully to equalize a match.

Lucius laughed lightly at Harry as though he were half-impressed by the secondary. "Indeed I was, Harry Potter, but I must thank you for making yourselves a bit of fun for me. What a nice gestured reward, only moments after I formidably completed such a mission!" He folded his hands together excitedly.

Hermione bravely interrupted without invitation, surprising herself more than them. "What have you done

with Draco, Mr. Malfoy?" Hermione lashed out angrily, showing the true colors inside herself, her compassion. "Don't you touch him!" It was a bout of cheek beyond belief, if not just a _bit_ reckless.

Harry looked over at her desperately, frustrated by the uncontrollable situation, and wondered why Hermione chose now to act so uncharacteristically stupid. Now, Lucius actually flinched slightly at her proud and threatening words that had been brutally launched at himself. His smiled faded away completely in the dozen or so moments following, replaced by calculative, observing x-ray eyes. Studiously, he deadlocked at Hermione sharper than ever, it disputable whether he was at all blinking. Finally, Lucius let out a barbaric sound that was half a scoff and half a hollowed laugh. "It's too late for that, Mudblood, filth like your kind do not scare me hesitant with frivolous threats. Stupid little girl, dare you speak to me like that!" Lucius bowed triumphantly at how crestfallen Hermione became at these cold, too clear words.

"He''s done his job ... Draco's ... no, he can't be ... where is he?" Hermione cried out, bursting into reluctant tears as her heart raced like a marathon; it was nothing, however, like the one crippling her mind with panicky thoughts. This was Lucius Malfoy they were dealing with, and Hermione would be a fool to assume anything but the worst. "Where's Draco?" Hermione exclaimed her demanded , recklessly acidic, speaking out of turn for the second time in a single minute, despite her flood of unstoppable tears. Lucius just folded his hands together calmly, visibly much too pleased with himself. Unsurprisingly, this apparentness again brought Hermione into a blanch of fury, "TELL ME! Tell me if you're so proud of your _fine_ work, that of which you sickly consider an accomplishment! WHERE IS DRACO!" Her tone was was so ill-intentioned it was as if Hermione had planned the occasion precisely - the announcement of her death wish perse.

Harry immediately felt as if somehow struck his stomach with a ball-and-chain torture device, alarmed beyond his imagination. Reflexively, Harry waved a warning hand at Hermione, begging her to stop despite his hopelessness-stricken face. "Hermione -" he murmured at the corner of his mouth subtly, or seemingly anyway, tilting over eye-to-eye pleadingly so only she could hear, and then understandably half-choked when his try was cut off by Malfoy.

Quicker than time would have allowed, Lucius vocally made his notice clear by a very complicit response. "Well, well, well, isn't that a bit prideless for the famous Harry Potter, the hero, the boy who lived to tell his defeat of The Dark Lord? Tell me something, Mudblood, what brings you here anyway? _That_ is the first question that needs an IMMEDIATE ANSWER, mind you, any of yours are irrelevant obviously, that you know already." Lucius smiled diabolically in an intentionally painful pause, then dramatically voiced his anger for the first time. The passionate tone released his own strike of fury much worse than Hermione's, not unpredictably. "By what DISGRACE be it that Draco Malfoy would ally with his worst enemies, his inferiors! Why, Potter, Mudblood, why were you trying to save Draco tonight, what the bloody hell has possessed your apparent rashness to this extent? Though his infuriated tone was anything but kind, Harry got the impression he would share his partake in this after they'd explained theirs. It was strange and not explainable, obviously, to Lucius' dismay and it might have seeped vulnerability into his tone.

Hermione, impressed by the ultimatum, obediently opened her mouth to explain some strand truth greatly stretched, but nothing came out. Her wretched state must have interfered bafflement, because all the words she'd planned on saying rearranged themselves in a jigsaw of perplexity. Sensibility, Hermione thought sarcastically, was the apparent disintegration to her mind flow. There was no passable lie thinkable, not even close , so making up something would heighten the intent of Malfoy's fury. There was only a void of unrecovered speechlessness in the succeeding moments, neither summoning elaboration nor serial, reluctant responses. Thus, she abashed an eyeing plead for mercy in her fight to conceal their deadly secret, despite pride, reluctantly whimpered.

And yet Lucius was satisfied, temporarily anyway, entertained by apparent appeasement. He was less intensified by impatience now, folding his arms at his chest loosely, and momentously appreciated the succeeded reaction: superiority was the twisted reaction Lucius had undoubtedly hoped for, saying as much himself. "Cat got your tongue, Mudblood? Fine, have it your way then. _I'll_ tell my story, mine and Draco's as of moments ago." He again cleared his throat theatrically before beginning the revelation. "I alerted Draco that tonight his actual schooling would begin, the training to become a Death Eater of course, a few days ago through owl post. He knew it was coming and I did not care about any reluctance Draco may or may not feel, considering Draco had never failed me diligence and obedience. I expected I would make a success of Draco just as I promised The Dark Lord." Lucius spoke calmly as if he were reciting a public address, a man without shame or wor worry about the reception to his words. There was a disregarding apathy for Draco completely, too clear in his mirthful tone.

He was no father of Draco's.

Hermione and Harry sneered at Lucius together, hatefulyl considering his callous pursuit. Loftiness contained Malfoy's tone before he pronounced a gesture: He cleared his throat with suspenseful enunciation, threateningly lunged a double-take of his sword at them, then redirected it at them more forcefully. "Alas, tell me why you are here for Draco before all else. NOW!" he demanded madly, intimidatingly blanching at them. Once satisfied with their largely increased incredulation, Lucius hissed the ultimate. "_Now_, or I'll use my favorite curse- the dear old Cruciatus Curse, many a time proven useful in my day. But you mustn't make me use _that_ to compel your submission, aren't I right Potter? _That_ you know too well."

Instantaneously, Harry shuddered chillingly at the sharp memory that first-handed how inconceivably excruciating the Cruciatus Curse was.

Hermione started off balance backward, her own immediate consideration of this apparent as she braved speech, gulping first. "Yes, I know it well and will proudly admit to you that I belonged his very first dose of profound, romantic feelings for anyone." Though these formal words would doubtlessly frustrate him beyond all else, somehow Hermione felt a greater source of courage emerge from her feeling in control of her cleverness. Harry shifted his head to Hermione instantly, full of alarm but not without being moderately impressed by her audacity.

But whether or not Lucius' degree of upset would increasingly do some serious damage to the situation, Harry and Hermione would neither know nor cease to wonder, and why? Because a great interruption proceeded that heatedly caused the transfer of power that changed things drastically: Severus Snape coincidentally left his office and had absently turned the corner two passages later only to witness the marvelous scene. Snape was so stunned it punctured a mark of agility throughout his demeanor the two hostages had never before seen in more than four years previous. Identically feeling perhaps more dreadful that someone's else involvement would likely be fatal, Hermione and Harry were taken aback for the second time within a manner of fifteen seconds; Snape managed somehow to prove his collected, cool demeanor "everlasting" so to speak, because without a moment's waste he immediately whipped out his wand swiftly and gracefully. Despite his animosity, Harry could be more than impressed by Snape's personification of a true warrior. It did not take long for Harry to finally understand how Snape had been an elite Death Eater of Voldemort's league of prestige. Wit perfect geometrical precision Snape threatened his wand by the target of Lucius' cold-blooded heart. "Lucius Malfoy, we meet again!" Snape sarcastically murmured, like Lucius were a well-respected acquaintance of some special kind.

Lucius visibly was by no means lofty alike the millisecond previous, his entire body tremulous by fright. Lucius Malfoy was never characterized without guard, without total (or apparent) confidence of self. Harry and Hermione both speechlessly wondered exactly how ignorant they were about Snape's previous life as a Death Eater. Not to mention what Lucius Malfoy was ignorant about, evidently. Stunned by panic, Lucius unhesitantly threw his hands up , forfeiting, above his head and positioned surrender. He choked humility onto a cajoling smile, demeaning every bit of himself nonthreateningly. Harry and Hermione were faintly conscious of the scene which they themselves were protoganists to, the suspense too overwhelming for human partake; it in principle it was too much for them to hope or anticipate. too paralyzed by terror to feel sensationally swept in any direction. Drowning, still Hermione pointlessly fought it anyway, had been for the last few moments, struggling breathlessly without a distant endpoint in hindsight. _Don't give up_, _Hermione_. Feeble words of encouragement echoed from a parallel her. _Think of Draco .... No, how will that help us? He's probably dead. _Hermione had to confessthe solidarity of that last sentence, that in all liklihood Draco had been murdered for betrayal; then, a feeling far more potent than that which she'd succumbed, the lack thereof that is of numbness, sky rocketed through Hermione and dominated her every followed breath, thought, movement and heartbeat ...

"Severus, you are one of my oldest friends - Not to mention one of my closest allies in our days together as servants to the Dark Lord." Immobilized, Lucius spoke so very softly in a plea for mercy. Reactively, Snaped indeed dualed his attentiveness to Lucius' words and to his warrior stance in perfect maintenance. Lucius smiled almost compassionately, an impossible evolutionary phenomena manifesting before their eyes, and continuing, "I wonder why you, Severus - _You_, a former most trusted novelty in the allegiance to the Dark Lord - would have been so empathetic as to pity Dumbledore's minions whom were less pitiful than just unimportant; a thought that has possessed me the last ten years, what an insensible puzzlement." Now Lucius spoke concernedly for Snape alone and completely, looking pensive, wide-eyed with wistful thoughts , his oddness very curious. "The Dark Lord cherished your talents and the greatness you put its use to, Severus, and I'm absolutely certain you resent your status now, the belittling contrast as Dumbledore's pawn: Dumbledore played you his instrument as so but not rightfully, and if you save me and redeem allegiance to the Dark Lord, I promise that united we shall make that old crackpot pay!" Lucius was like Draco in some respects, too obvious to miss now in the way they both exhibited the right skills of provocation when helpless to personify, and it was uncomfortably familiar as Hermione watched the blindsighting, human rehearsal that Lucius instrumented pleadingly.

_I've never met such a demonic person_. Hermione clenched her firsts spastically against unfamiliar excesses of lividness.And then suddenly - before Severus could do anymore than smirk condescendingly at Lucius - Hermione became possessed by the ultimate: In a momentous bit of superpower, Hermione dodged rationale as she, entirely unnoticed, halfway leaped downward and speedily retrieved her wand off the stone floor, balanced back up with not too much of a stumble and equipped her wand. Unhesitantly, Hermione meticulously held her wand outward at Malfoy in a ferocious gain of esteem, then tumultuously declared, "_Petrificus Totalus!_" on cue with the sideways notice of Lucius' eye. The spell sent sizzling gold sparks that struck Malfoy paralyzed instantly, knocking him backward onto the dungeon's hard surface and cutting off his reactive, painful cry before it could even sound. Every bone in his body was completely immovable, lay but a human statute really, and the surprised dread that had overtaken him face was the only source of animation that remained on Malfoy.

Obviously, Harry and Snape were flabbergasted beyond belief. Their faces revealed no distinctive qualities but rather were indifferently primitive in a plain show of incredulation, taken aback by some unearthly phenomenon seemingly. _Where did that come form_, _the two bewildered wizards wondered, and how could she have been so clever enough to just be so lucky enough? _

No one spoke for several moments as they fathomed the acknowledgment of what had just happened, let it hang in the air as their nerves revitalized. A moment ago they were in the face of one of their worst enemies thinkable after walking right into their own death wish, and it seemed impossible they would have survived. And yet it had ended at their better half, they had not escaped Malfoy's clutches, they had _defeated _him inexplicably. The fact that she'd been able to inconspicuously regain her wand was itself more than astounding, but of course made trivial by the much greater miracle that Hermione had overcome the most powerful Death Eater of them all, Lucius Malfoy. Understandably, the dispension of the suspense, of the horror, of the hopelessness awarded its moment of aftershock, and which was proceeded by Harry and Snape almost simultaneously snapping back into the moment of things.

It wasn't over yet.

Hermione, meanwhile, was finishing her take of repeated deep breaths while trying to recollect into steadiness, finally managing to gasp harshly to Snape desperately. "Draco, we have to find out about Draco! Professor, _please_, Malfoy did something terrible to Draco in the Slytherin Common Room! Please take us through the entrance, Professor, he could be .... Malfoy said as much himself ..." Hermione trailed off incoherently as tears trailed down her cheeks copiously, that a battle Hermione Granger could never win. All that mortal strength did not vaporize when confronted by human empathy of the kind that only Hermione could so preciously contain inside herself; no amount of anything could withstand the untouchable, too rare (tonight proven) compassion that Hermione strongly felt for others in pain. And it was that common link, that moral intertwine, that would have driven Hermione here tonight regardless of whether she still hated Draco. It is that pivotal quality that'd sailed Harry Potter and Hermione Granger into these poisonous waters that haunt tonight's blaze of crimson in the skies.

At this, Harry sharply lit up with alarm alike to her own but neither of them measured with the disturbed alertness that engulfed Snape's reaction. He reflexively wide-eyed her prudently, begging to differ. "Granger .... you're sure? What did Lucius say? Never mind it, we shall see what that creature has left for us." Hearing Snape's voice sound so tormented, so solemn, so discombobulated, to witness him in such a disfigured state was possibly as remarkable as encountering a World Wonder, but it lacked the satisfaction that the two of them (and especially Ron) would have idealized.

And thus, without his normal sneer of condescension or disrespect, nor with the presence of any three-dimensional emotion, the three marched together and found what they found in the Slytherins' chilling common room, and for once Harry did not feel so different from Snape after all.

**Author's Afterword: **I really enjoyed writing this story in the little increments over these past ten months. I planned it to be a bout of creative writing on a Saturday afternoon but it really turned into soemthing pretty substantive, or at least I would think so. I hope those of you who read know that I appreciate your doing so, and that I sincerely wish you took something useful from it.


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